by Lucy Diamond
‘Do you know, I might pop back and knock, actually,’ she blurted out. ‘Would you mind? I’m probably being silly but because she was so poorly before – and because she’s always telling me that she’s dying, too – I will just make sure.’ She hesitated, conscious of his sister Debbie waiting for them to arrive and collect the girls – Debbie, who she hadn’t met yet, but who was such an important part of her brother’s life that Charlotte definitely wanted to make a good impression. It wouldn’t be a great start, would it, if they rocked up later than expected, because she, Charlotte, got this fanciful notion in her head about her elderly neighbour. But now that the notion was in her head, there was no way she could ignore it.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Ned said, giving the shutter one last heave to make sure it was secure before putting the keys in his pocket.
By the time they’d reached the house, having huffed and puffed her way up the hill in haste, Charlotte was beginning to feel self-conscious for letting her instincts have their way, for allowing her emotions and panic to have steered them off course and away from Debbie’s house, thus delaying the fish finger teatime. It was going to be really embarrassing to knock on Margot’s door and see the surprised expression on her neighbour’s face when she answered it and saw them there. She would laugh, probably. She might even chide them for their interfering, over-anxious behaviour – ‘Ahh, you think I am dying, hein? Not yet, my darling. Not today!’
Still. They were here now, right at the top of the house, they might as well just double check. ‘Margot?’ Charlotte called, knocking on the door. ‘It’s me. Are you there?’
To her surprise, the door slid noiselessly open. Her neighbour must have left it on the latch. ‘Margot?’ Charlotte called again, stepping inside. ‘It’s Charlotte. Are you okay?’
The flat was silent. ‘Maybe she’s gone out,’ Ned said, hanging back. But Charlotte’s heart was thumping. Something was wrong, she thought, walking down the hall. She just knew it: something was wrong.
‘Margot?’ Then she heard it: a faint answering whimper, and she was running, blood cold, into the living room, where – ‘Oh my God. Margot! Margot! What happened?’ – where her neighbour lay on the floor, face waxy, eyes almost closed, her hair a rat’s nest of silver-grey tangles. Charlotte knelt on the floor and took the other woman’s pulse – a feeble lagging beat as if her heart no longer had the energy for anything stronger.
‘Shit,’ cried Ned, bursting into the room a second behind her. He pulled out his phone. ‘I’ll call an ambulance.’
‘No!’ The passion in Margot’s voice surprised them all, her eyes snapping wide open.
‘Margot, we must, you’re too poorly now,’ Charlotte said, still holding her hand. She reached down and stroked Margot’s hair off her face. Her beautiful hair, usually so elegantly styled and sprayed – it now lay in thin hanks, betraying its owner’s age and ill-health. The skin on her hands felt cold and papery, as if she’d been there some time. ‘Oh gosh, you poor thing, did you fall? How long have you been lying here?’
Margot clutched at Charlotte, her eyes cloudy but imploring. ‘Please. No. No ambulance,’ she gasped. ‘Please.’
‘But—’
‘Please.’
Charlotte gazed down at her helplessly, feeling conflicted. ‘Can we at least call for a nurse, someone to look after you?’ she asked, before remembering with a sudden bolt of clarity about Jo. ‘Ned. Will you run down and get Jo? Flat 2. She’s a nurse on a cancer ward, she’ll know what to do. Oh, Margot,’ she said, her voice a sob as he took off behind her. Please don’t go, she wanted to wail. Not yet! I’ve only just got to know you – and I love spending time with you. ‘I’m sorry I’ve not been round sooner. I should have thought to check. I’ve been a bad friend, I’ve been so wrapped up in myself.’
Margot’s eyelids had closed, a tiny purple vein throbbing at one corner and her breath sighed out from her. For a terrible moment, Charlotte thought it was game over, that she’d just died, there and then, on her living-room floor, but then the older woman’s lips parted. ‘Good friend,’ she said, her voice little more than a whisper. ‘I am happy. For you.’
Ned ran back into the room in the next minute, followed by Jo, who knelt alongside Charlotte and spoke kindly and briskly to Margot. ‘Hello, do you remember me? I’m Jo from downstairs, I’m a nurse at the hospital,’ she said. ‘We can have an ambulance here in two minutes, or I could drive you to the hospital myself if you’d rather,’ she offered, but Margot merely shook her head. ‘Are you sure you want to stay? Okay, well, let’s get you a bit more comfortable, in that case, and if you change your mind at any point, just tell me.’
Tears ran down Charlotte’s face as Jo took over, asking a series of questions before she and Ned carried Margot through to her bed. ‘It’s not looking good,’ she said quietly to Charlotte. ‘She’s very weak and tired, I think we’re approaching the end. Do you know of any relatives who might want to be here?’
‘She has two sons in France,’ Charlotte said, her voice catching. Oh goodness, this was all happening so quickly. Too quickly. She tried to pull herself together for Margot’s sake. What were the sons called? She knew they hadn’t always got on but they’d want to be with their mum at a time like this, wouldn’t they? Hadn’t they argued because they’d wanted her to die at home in France? She had visions of them arriving and hauling Margot away, tucked under one arm like a roll of carpet, and had to blink several times and swallow in order to think clearly. ‘I’ll try and get hold of them. She must have an address book or contact details somewhere.’
Ned was shifting from foot to foot, his expression uneasy. ‘I’m really sorry, but I’m going to have to pick up the girls,’ he said. ‘I’d ask Deb to keep them a bit longer but I know she’s got her Pilates tonight – it’s the one evening of the week where I can’t be late. I hate to leave you like this but—’
‘It’s fine. I understand,’ Charlotte said helplessly. ‘I’m going to stay here. Sorry. Can we rearrange for another time?’
‘Of course! Don’t apologize,’ he said, with a long tight hug. ‘Definitely another time.’ He let go of her, his eyes concerned. ‘Will you let me know . . . how things are, here? Keep me posted?’
‘Sure,’ she said, glancing over as Jo rummaged in a cupboard for an extra blanket, then laid it over Margot’s body. ‘I’d better go. See you soon.’ They kissed and he gave her a last embrace before peeling himself away. As she heard his footsteps retreating down the stairs, she tried to dredge up some strength from inside. She had a feeling it was going to be a long night.
Margot died just after three o’clock the next morning, with Charlotte and Jo still by her side. The only other person Charlotte had ever seen die before had been her tiny baby daughter Kate in a sterile, brightly lit hospital room and it had been the most devastating, heartbreaking moment of her life. Margot’s death, by contrast, felt oddly peaceful, almost imperceptible, a quiet slipping away by candlelight, the night outside respectfully silent, as if in hushed homage. Charlotte and Jo had been either side of her, holding a hand each throughout. There had been moments of conversation where Margot became lucid and could reply to them, interspersed by long periods of peace where the only sound was the ticking of a bedside clock and the laborious breathing of an old, tired pair of lungs. Charlotte had brushed Margot’s hair for her, gently washed her face, rubbed a little hand-cream into her dry fingers. Small acts of kindness, each one saying, I’m here. I’m grateful for what you did. I’m really going to miss you.
Jo had telephoned the ward where she worked and spoken to the sister there, to tell her what was happening. According to their records, Margot had been suffering from blood cancer and, since early spring, had refused any more treatment. She’d last been seen by a doctor the Friday before, when it had been explained to her that she was now in the terminal stages of illness, and it was only a matter of time. In her notes it said that she’d been offered hospice care but had turned it down, prefer
ring to stay at home. A tear trickled down Charlotte’s cheek on hearing this. Of course Margot had turned it down. ‘Die in a strange place with people I do not know? Non,’ Charlotte could imagine her saying in that defiant way of hers.
‘Friday was the day of Rosa’s supper club,’ she realized now, her throat tight with wanting to sob. ‘When she looked so well, when she seemed so . . . so Margot-ish again. I thought . . . I assumed . . .’
Jo reached over and squeezed her hand. ‘It often happens like that,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ve seen it many times. Sometimes there’s actually a gladness to be told your time’s almost up, especially if you’ve been in a lot of acute pain for a long time, as Margot has been. There is a relief in knowing the agony is coming to an end.’ They both glanced over at the older woman lying there between them and Charlotte could hardly bear the welling sadness she felt, thinking of Margot putting on her lipstick each day, heroically covering up her pain. The strength of character that must have taken, the determination to face down her illness and go on alone . . . it was extraordinary.
‘There’s also this strange phenomenon where, soon before a person dies, they can often spend a day or two feeling quite well again,’ Jo went on. ‘It’s like the calm before the storm, one last lull. Perhaps that was Margot’s. Perhaps it was her last hurrah. And good for her.’
‘Good for her,’ Charlotte echoed. ‘Good for you, Margot.’ Tears pricked her eyes again as she thought for the hundredth time how glad she was that she’d followed her instincts, that some sixth sense had compelled her to check on her upstairs neighbour before it was too late. She still wasn’t sure exactly how long Margot had lain there before Charlotte and Ned had burst in. How awful it would have been if they’d never made it, if she had gone on to Ned’s house for tea with the girls. Margot might have died there, on her living-room floor, cold and alone. The thought was so awful it broke Charlotte’s heart just to imagine.
In death, as in life, Margot had been organized and meticulous. As soon as Charlotte had started searching for contact details of the two sons, she had found a list of instructions in shaky handwriting, including phone numbers for Michel and Henri, orders for how she’d like her funeral (a cremation at Woodvale, with the ashes to be scattered in Auray, the French town where she’d grown up), along with details of her solicitor and the name of her doctor. At the bottom of the paper, she had written ‘I enjoy my life’ and then a simple ‘MERCI’ in capital letters, and it was that, the fact that even when very very ill and at the end of her existence, lights dimming, Margot had wanted to stamp her claim on the world with that bold, proud last sentence, that made Charlotte love her even more. I enjoy my life. Yes, you did, she thought, wiping her eyes as she prepared to telephone France. You bloody well did that, Margot.
When the end finally came and Margot stopped breathing, Jo checked her pulse to be quite sure, then recorded the time of death, gently pulled down her eyelids and telephoned the doctor. Meanwhile, Charlotte burst into tears and lay her head on the older woman’s still chest like a child craving comfort. She thought of everything Margot had done for her – the confidence she’d given her, as well as the companionship, their weekly tea and pastries, her sense of adventure. Margot had reminded her of all the beautiful things in life worth celebrating, and she’d done so with such panache. Then she thought of Margot’s sons, grimly heading towards Brighton, now too late for one final goodbye with their mother. Perhaps they were on the ferry right at this moment, looking up at the stars as they journeyed across the dark water, sending up prayers that she would still be there when they arrived. I’m sorry, she said to them in her head. But she was not alone.
She remained lying with her arm across Margot until Jo came back to say that the doctor would be round first thing to issue the death certificate, and that she should really get some sleep now. They pulled a sheet respectfully over Margot’s inert cooling body, blew out the candles with soft smoky puffs, and then made their way back through the flat. ‘Goodbye,’ Charlotte said under her breath, lingering in the doorway. ‘Goodbye, Margot. Sleep well.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
‘“I am the resurrection and the life,” says the Lord.’ The vicar’s voice rang out across the pews and Georgie, head bowed, reached along to grip Charlotte’s hand. ‘“Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.”’
It was the following Monday and Margot’s funeral was being held at the crematorium on Lewes Road. Georgie hadn’t been to many funerals, but was pretty sure the turnout for this one was out-of-the-ordinary, to say the least. The rows were all packed with mourners – and what a motley bunch they were too, ranging from silvery-haired ladies in neat twinsets, to a couple of luxuriantly bearded bikers, to bohemian types with colourful clothes and lots of beads, to . . . well, not that she was perving or anything, there at her former neighbour’s funeral, but Georgie was pretty sure there were a few candidates from Margot’s hotties’ safari as well, heads lowered, come to pay their respects.
Everyone had loved Margot, by the looks of things – and even though Georgie had only met her once, at Rosa’s supper club the other night, she had taken to her immediately too, mentally filing her in the category ‘Total broad’. She’d seemed so sharp and funny, and, according to Charlotte, had lived majestically up there in her attic flat, right until the end. That was the way to do it. Just as soon as Georgie could stop crying and feeling miserable about everything all the time, she fully intended to position Margot Favager as new role model number one. Catch Margot sighing and slumping about because a boyfriend had walked out on her? Hell, no. Catch Margot staring mournfully at photo after photo of Simon, rereading text after text, clicking on his Facebook page far too many times a day, and doing very little else? Never. Even after her brief time with the woman, Georgie was sure that Margot would have marched straight back out into the world, post-break-up, with her head held high, sending a gigantic two fingers to any ex-boyfriends in the process. If only it was so easy.
She’d still heard nothing from Simon up in Yorkshire. Not a word. It had been twelve whole days and nights now since he’d stormed out of the flat and driven home, and the radio silence had been at full volume despite all Georgie’s apologetic texts. Amelia had glimpsed him apparently, looking ‘miserable’ as he walked the family’s black Labrador around the village, but that was the sole piece of intelligence she’d managed to glean from her Stonefield spies so far. Either he was lying low with his parents, being well and truly cosseted, or he was out all hours having already steamed straight into some amazing new job, and forgotten about her. Neither scenario was much comfort.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t even badger her two best friends into further spying forays – peering through Simon’s parents’ front window, loitering in the bushes outside with a pair of binoculars, that sort of harmless, innocent thing – because they both had enough on their plates right now. Jade’s beloved granny had died and the whole family were in bits, whereas things had all kicked off for Amelia when horrible Chloe had brazenly made a move on Jason, Amelia’s fiancé.
‘Yeah! Actually grabbed him and tried to haul him out of the back of the pub for a snog,’ Amelia had ranted down the phone, all high-pitched and squeaky with indignation. ‘Can you believe the cheek of her? The nasty little snake. She daren’t show her face near me again, I’m telling you. Not if she wants to live to see next Christmas, anyway.’
It made Georgie feel more helplessly cut adrift than ever, being so far from her friends when all three of them were undergoing their various crises. By rights, she’d have gone to pay her respects to Jade and the rest of the family, all of whom she’d known since she was four. And it went without saying that she should have been firmly by Amelia’s side throughout the whole tawdry Chloe business, providing voodoo dolls for her friend to stab pins into, and thoroughly enjoying slagging the vile woman off over a bottle of wine or three. As for Georgie herself, needless
to say, her two friends would have ordinarily been staunch pillars of support during her boyfriendless trauma. Although this did beg the question – would she have been in this situation at all had she never left Stonefield in the first place?
Best not to go there.
It had occurred to her, several times, that maybe she should just swallow her pride and drive back up to Yorkshire so that she could sort everything out. But then of course, Simon would probably get cross with her for following him again and . . . Oh, she just didn’t know any more. Because she kind of did want to follow him, she did want to be back with him. Did that make her a very weak person who couldn’t stand on her own two feet without a bloke? Or simply a woman who refused to give up on love?
One of Margot’s sons was speaking now. He had piercing blue eyes and a hooked nose and dark hair that fell almost to his shoulders. Plus he spoke English in a deliciously sexy French accent. Not that she was eyeing up a bereaved son at his mother’s funeral or anything so crass. Obviously.
‘My mother, she love living here. We – my brother and I – we say, come home. We want you home with us. But she say, and leave England? No. I stay. This is my home. I have friends here, I am happy. And so I want to say thank you, to her many, many friends. Thank you from her family. You gave her a good life right until the end. She felt loved, by you. And for us, her family, we feel . . .’ He thought for a moment to get the word, his bushy eyebrows colliding above his nose. ‘We feel – grateful? Grateful – for this. That you welcomed her and loved her and called her your friend.’
Charlotte was weeping beside her and Georgie had tears in her eyes too, for wonderful Margot and her hook-nosed sons but also, if she was honest, because she was feeling so sad about her own mess of a life. If she died tomorrow, would Simon come to her funeral? Would anyone? Viv probably wouldn’t, after Georgie had turned up snivelling in the office the week before, confessing that she couldn’t write the speed dating piece after all, she just couldn’t. Viv had been cross with her for two whole days before relenting and saying that perhaps Georgie could write a piece about ‘Brighton Women Doing It Their Way’ instead, and yes, all right, she could include Rosa and her supper club as one of the case studies, she supposed.