The Kicking the Bucket List

by Cathy Hopkins

  For the last three Christmases, we’d made our visits to Mum separately.

  When Mum had moved to the retirement village, Rose had suggested that we spread time with her over the festive period, so that Mum had three visits to look forward to instead of one. The arrangement suited me because the train companies often did engineering works over Christmas, making travel difficult from where I lived in the south west, but it also meant that I didn’t see my sisters – not that either complained. Years ago, Rose had commented that, ‘I wasn’t really in her life any more.’ It had stung. I had thought differently – that we were family, sisters, and always would be, despite time apart, but I knew what she meant. I wasn’t involved in the ordinary everyday events that made up a life. What she said had hurt all the same, but then Rose had always been able to do that to me. She’d been dismissing me since we were little – not including me in her gang when we were in junior school, shooing me away in our teens when her friends were over. I was always too young, not cool or clever enough to be in with her crowd.

  All of us were worried about Mum. Even though she’d made a good recovery from the stroke, apart from a weakness down one side of her body and difficulty walking sometimes, her doctors warned that it might happen again. Rose, Fleur and I agreed on one thing. We wanted the best for her last chapter in life. Rose had a demanding job in publishing, a husband, her children, still at school then, and no spare room. Fleur was living in California at the time and there was no way Mum was going to uproot that far. I’d been the obvious choice to take care of her. I’d lived alone since my daughter Lucy had flown the nest almost six years ago. She’d gone first to live with her aunt on her father Andy’s side, in London, then later with her boyfriend to live in Australia near Andy, so I had her old room on the first floor that could be used.

  ‘Dee, you could go and live with Mum and take care of her,’ Fleur had suggested.

  ‘You can work from anywhere,’ said Rose. ‘There’s loads of room in the old house for you to paint.’

  ‘But my life is in Cornwall. I don’t want to uproot any more than Mum does, and if I let go of my house, I’m unlikely to ever find such a place to rent again. My landlady will find a new tenant, and when Mum does pass, the family home will have to be sold and I’ll be homeless.’

  ‘Don’t be overdramatic,’ said Rose.

  ‘It’s OK for you two. You have your own homes. I don’t own mine.’

  ‘And whose fault is that?’ asked Rose.

  I’d chosen to ignore her jibe. ‘What would I do with Max and Misty?’

  ‘Mum’s allergic to cats,’ said Rose, ‘so if she came to live with you, you’d have to put them in a rescue home.’

  ‘Forget it. I can’t – won’t – abandon them. I can’t believe you can even suggest that. And what about Lucy when she comes home?’

  ‘She only visits every couple of years,’ said Fleur. ‘There’d be room at Mum’s.’

  ‘Summer Lane is her UK home as well as mine.’

  ‘You’re being selfish and uncaring,’ said Rose.

  ‘I am?’

  ‘And putting your cats before Mum,’ added Fleur.

  I was outraged. ‘I do what I can. Neither of you have ever appreciated the distance I have to travel to visit, never mind the cost. Door to door can take seven hours, and that’s if the buses, ferry and train run smoothly, which more often than not, they don’t.’

  ‘Oh stop moaning,’ said Rose.

  ‘It’s all right for you, Rose. You live less than an hour away in Highgate.’

  ‘I don’t though,’ said Fleur. ‘I live in California, yet I still manage to get to see Mum.’

  ‘You let her down more times than you turn up, though,’ said Rose. ‘Don’t you know she marks the date in her calendar when you say you’re coming? She likes to anticipate a visit, gets food in, bakes for you, then you cancel and turn up out of the blue with your expensive presents to make up for your absence.’

  ‘Fuck you, Rose. I like to spoil her. What’s wrong with that? Stop trying to make me feel guilty. I do what I can,’ said Fleur.

  ‘Yes, but you have property in London so it’s not a big deal to visit when you’re in town,’ I said.

  ‘Dee, you’re the best option,’ said Rose.

  ‘I am not. Stop trying to control me and take over my life. Both of you are being insensitive to my situation and to suggest I give up my home is the last straw. And anyway, it’s up to Mum. We should ask her what she wants.’

  While we’d sulked and seethed at each other, Mum did her research online then went ahead with her own plans. The three of us, smarting from our wounds, withdrew from one another. We visited Mum separately. It was easy enough to do without dragging her into our quarrels, and actually it was nice to have time alone with her when I did visit. I could fantasize that I was an only child. Mum’d reassured me that she was fine about not coming to live with me, or me coming to live with her – she understood and not to feel bad about it, but of course I felt dreadful. I felt I’d let her down when she needed me.

  *

  Mr Richardson reappeared and handed each of us an envelope. ‘It’s all in there. Do feel free to call if you have any questions.’

  ‘Thank you, we will. In the meantime, I have to dash,’ said Rose as she put away her phone and got up.

  Fleur and I left soon after and went our separate ways. I didn’t mind. Mum might have made plans to get us back together but I couldn’t see it happening, not in a million years.

  As I headed for the train station, I decided that after we’d done whatever Mum had requested, I’d have nothing to do with either of my sisters. I had a feeling that they felt the same.

  3

  Wednesday 2 September, morning

  I picked up my bag from where I’d left it when I got home last night and pulled out the envelope that Mr Richardson had given me. As I put it on the bedside cabinet to read again later, I remembered Mum’s request that I talk to God.

  I sat on the bed and looked up at the ceiling. ‘OK Mum, no time like the present so here goes. Dear God, my mother’s suggested that I talk to you. I know, it’s been a while – that’s because I’m not convinced that there’s anyone listening and, if there is, speaks English. How does it work? Do you have a Google Translate system on your cosmic exchange for incoming prayers? Er …’ Why am I talking to the ceiling? I wondered as I noticed a damp patch in the left corner above the door. If God is omnipresent then I could just as well talk to the floor. I looked down and there, as clear as daylight, was a message from God, spelt out in cat hairs and toast crumbs. It said, Dee McDonald, your carpet needs hoovering. ‘So … God … I’d be interested to hear what you have to say about wasps and why they exist. And why is there so much trouble and hatred in the world? What do you have to say about that?’

  No reply. Just the ticking of the clock by the bed and, in the distance, the sound of an occasional passerby going about their business outside. In the dressing-table mirror I could see a slim woman propped up against a pile of teal blue velvet cushions on a cast-iron bed, a silver grey cat sleeping by her side. Me, dressed in jeans and a pale blue top, chestnut-coloured shoulder-length hair loosely tied back. My roots needed doing. I made a mental note to get some wash-in-colour on my next visit to Boots.

  I jumped at the sound of the phone ringing, got up and went to answer.

  ‘Is that Daisy McDonald?’ A man’s voice. Not one I knew.

  ‘It is,’ I replied, adopting the same solemn tone.

  ‘William Harris here. My mother, Eleanor Harris, was your landlady.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news but am calling to inform you that she passed away last week.’

  I sank back on to the bed and listened to the rest of what he had to say, whilst at the same time trying to quell my rising panic. Letter in the post to me, confirming it all. Oh god, I know what that means. He’ll want me out, I thought as I made myself focus.

>   When he’d finished, I put the phone down. Mrs Harris had been elderly so it was a call I’d been expecting and dreading for a few years. Hard to take in now that it had actually happened. I didn’t know her well, but it was a blow all the same. We’d met when I first came to the southwest just over twenty-eight years ago, fresh out of art college, my head full of dreams of a studio by the sea. She came to my first exhibition in the Clock Tower down by the bay and liked my paintings. When she heard I was looking for somewhere permanent to live, she’d offered me a house at the back of the village. I could hardly believe my luck when I saw it, especially as the rent she asked for was ridiculously low considering the size of the place and the location. It was a mid-terrace with three floors, a loft up top with great light where I used to do my paintings, two bedrooms on the first floor with an ancient but adequate bathroom, a kitchen, living room, loo on the ground floor, and at the back was a wrought-iron veranda that led to a small neglected garden that I’d brought back to life over the years, planting roses, lavender and wild geraniums.

  Mrs Harris said that all she wanted was a good tenant, a caretaker. She wasn’t bothered about getting the best price, as long as the house was looked after. It had belonged to her parents and was still full of their dark mahogany furniture, faded velvet curtains and threadbare rugs. She’d grown up there, so wanted it to go to the right person, someone who was going to stay in the area; not a holiday let, which would mean never knowing how long anyone was going to stay or who they were. The house, though smaller, reminded me of my old family home so I felt like I belonged there from the start. It worked well. I rarely saw her because she lived in Truro and visited once a year, when she’d come in June and nod appreciatively at my roses and the fact I hadn’t tried to change the décor. I paid my rent into her account on time, kept up with repairs, and filled the house with books, artefacts from my travels and friends’ paintings, giving it a cosy, bohemian and lived-in feel. It was my home. Mrs Harris’s death would mean the end of our arrangement.

  Wednesday 2 September, afternoon

  ‘Dear God, me again,’ I said, as I hacked down shrubs in the back garden as if it might solve my problems. ‘Sorry we got cut off this morning. Life took over, I’m sure you understand, being omniscient and all. Anyway. Home. I might not have one for much longer. Can you help? Or should one not put in personal requests?’

  As if in response, the phone rang. I ran in to the kitchen to answer. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Is that Dee McDonald?’ A man’s voice again. Well spoken. Not William Harris.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Michael Harris here.’

  Ah, the elder brother, I thought. I’d met him once briefly, years ago, when he was passing through on his way to visit his mother. He was about my age, a handsome, solid-looking man, and very sure of himself in that way the privileged and privately educated often are.

  ‘Sorry to spring this on you, but I’m just round the corner and I … I believe my brother called.’

  ‘He did. I’m sorry for your loss.’

  ‘Thank you. I … Would it be convenient to drop by?’ Christ! He and his brother don’t waste any time, I thought as I caught sight of myself in the hall mirror. I was wearing my gardening clothes, had no make-up on and looked flushed from the exertion of weeding. I brushed back strands of hair from my face with my free hand, then rubbed away a smudge of earth from my forehead.

  ‘I won’t stay long,’ he continued. ‘But I’d like to speak with you rather urgently.’

  I hesitated for a moment, then decided: best get it over with. ‘Sure, just give me five minutes.’

  I raced to the cloakroom, splashed my face, applied a slick of lipstick and smoothed my hair. Why the effort? I asked myself. I’d given up on men a long time ago, but old habits die hard, and from what I remembered of my brief encounter with Michael Harris, I’d felt intimidated by him.

  On the dot of five minutes, he knocked on the door. He was still attractive: eyes the colour of polished conkers, a full head of sandy hair flecked with grey. He looked a kind man, the type who could be relied on, probably due to his tall stature and broad shoulders. He’d put on a bit of weight around his middle, which I felt gratified to see. It made him look more approachable.

  ‘I expect you’re calling about the house,’ I said as I let him in and ushered him into the front room.

  He nodded as he looked around, appraising the place. ‘I’m on my way to Truro. Funeral arrangements and so on.’

  ‘Of course. I’m so sorry … my condolences. I …’

  He nodded again briefly and I got the impression that he didn’t want to talk about the death of his mother. ‘I’m sorry not to have given you more notice, but my brother called me to say he’d spoken to you earlier and as I was driving this way I …’ He had the decency to look faintly embarrassed. ‘I wanted to call in. I know it’s been your home for so long but—’

  ‘I can pay the rent if you give me your details. I’ve never missed it.’

  ‘I know. It’s not that. I … that is my brother and I, now that our mother has passed, well, we’ll be putting the house up for sale. I know William has put it all in a letter but I felt that was rather formal in the circumstances which is why I thought I’d take the opportunity to speak to you in person.’

  ‘Circumstances?’

  ‘You having been here so long.’

  My stomach constricted. This was my worst nightmare, but I did my best not to let my reaction show on my face. Of course, they want their inheritance. The house must be worth at least five hundred thousand. Can’t blame them, though he doesn’t look short of money, I thought as I took in the navy cashmere pullover, well-cut chinos and brown leather brogues. Michael Harris had a gloss about him that said he lived well. He smelt expensive, too: Chanel for Monsieur. I recognized the scent, woody with a hint of citrus. It had been Dad’s favourite. Mum had kept a half-used bottle of it for years after he’d died. The familiar fragrance always stirred up sadness – as if Dad was there for a moment, but of course, like the cologne, the scent of him soon evaporated into nothing, leaving me with a sense of emptiness at his absence in my life and a longing for something or someone to fill it.

  ‘I wanted to let you know that we’ll give you first option on the sale,’ he continued, ‘that’s the least we can do.’

  I laughed and Michael looked at me quizzically. It struck me that if Mum hadn’t made the condition that delayed my inheritance for a year, I’d have been in a position to buy the house immediately. However, I didn’t want to tell him about Mum nor the will, not until I’d had a chance to talk things over with my friend Anna.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said again.

  ‘I’ll have to go over my finances. Can I get back to you?’

  He looked surprised. ‘Of course, er … in the meantime, we need to have the house valued – estate agents. Only fair to you and us. We’d want three valuations.’

  ‘That would be sensible. Just let me know when they want to come.’

  He glanced, disapprovingly, I thought, around the living-room artefacts. There were rather a lot of them and most of them had a story – a memento from a holiday or a gift from a friend. His glance rested for a second on the bronze Greek statue with an oversized penis on the mantelpiece. Anna had given it to me five years ago after a date had gone disastrously wrong and I had told her I was giving up on men. Anna brought the statue to make me laugh. And it did.

  ‘Satyr with penis rectus, a classic example of the ithyphallic. Some say it was Dionysus, others that he was one of the wood satyrs said to have been a companion,’ said Michael. ‘In contrast to the sleek beauty of so many Greek statues, its vulgarity conveys a strong image, don’t you think?’

  Stuck-up prick, I thought, then almost got the giggles when I realized how apt that was in the circumstances. ‘Also known as the wahey, look what I’ve got,’ I blurted. I don’t know what made me say it, but he had sounded so pompous.

  He didn’t laugh or ask to lo
ok around any further, and I was glad to see him to the door.

  ‘I’ll be in touch to arrange valuations,’ he said after he’d taken my email address and I his. He made his way through the small front garden and out to his car, a black Jaguar which was parked opposite, outside Anna’s cottage. Before he got in, he turned back to take another look at the house, but saw me still standing on the doorstep. ‘Er … good to have met you again.’

  Yeah sure, I thought. You just want me out and your money in the bank. ‘And you,’ I said and gave him my most charming smile. With knobs on. Greek ithyphallic ones.

  *

  I went through to the kitchen, sank into a chair and blinked away tears. This wasn’t my home any more, it belonged to the Harris brothers. My ginger cat, Max, stared at me from his place on the windowsill. An image of the Buddha looked down at me from one of the many postcards and photos I’d pinned to a notice board next to the cooker. He was half smiling, eyes closed, his expression serene. Smug bastard, I thought. I don’t suppose you had to pay rent for your spot under the banyan tree.

  A montage of my life was pinned up on the board: my daughter, Lucy, as a toddler in a red bathing suit, paddling in the sea in Goa, again at nine years old dressed as Charlie Chaplin for a fancy dress party, a wedding photo with Andy, my first husband and Lucy’s father – the twenty-four-year-old me at our wedding wearing a crown of cream rosebuds. Another photo showed Nick, handsome, adventurous, the free spirit. Everyone had adored him, but neither family life nor commitment were for him – at least not with me. Halfway down the board was a photo with someone cut out – that would have been John, my last partner. We were together for six years until I had an epiphany at a dinner party. He was a well-regarded local artist and was rattling on in his usual superior manner and it was like the blinkers came off and I saw him for what he really was – a pompous bore who had sponged off me all the time we were together. I later found out that he’d never been faithful. Back then I took the prize in the ‘Love Is Blind’ contest. I’d had a symbolic cutting up of all his photos, then I’d burnt them with Anna’s help. I’d felt like an old witch as I watched his self-satisfied face shrivel and disappear into flames then ashes.