Just One More Day

by Susan Lewis

  After he’s gone I get meself up, then sink straight back down on the bed again. Bloody legs. How the heck am I going to get downstairs if they won’t even let me stand up? Come on you silly buggers. It’s been three days already, you should be cavorting across Siston bloody Common by now, not buckling right out from under me like a couple of sodding straws. Still, at least Eddie wasn’t here to see it. Don’t want him fussing around me, when he’s already got enough on his plate.

  I try again, holding onto the bedhead, and after a bit of wobbling about I manage to get me balance. It’s not too bad after that, a bit of a stagger here and there as I go out on the landing, but if I sit down on me bum and take the stairs that way, I should get to the bottom no problem at all.

  It works.

  I’m here now, back on me feet and going into the kitchen. And to tell the truth, I don’t feel all that bad. It does me the power of good to get out of that bed, and back in me own kitchen. And what a blessing it is to make me own cup of tea. Not that Eddie’s cups are bad, they’re just not like I make them, nice and thick and strong with a little drop of milk and two spoons of sugar.

  So, the kettle’s on, the toast is under and I’m just lighting up when Eddie comes back.

  ‘Everything all right?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah. I said I’d be back in tomorrow. I could do with one of those, got any more?’

  ‘Help yourself,’ I say, offering him one.

  He lights it off the gas and sucks the smoke all the way in. I can tell it’s made him dizzy, well it would when he hasn’t had one for over a year. It’s a wonder he’s not choking.

  ‘Children awake yet?’ he asks.

  ‘Not a sound.’

  He takes another drag and sucks it all the way in again. ‘Bloody daft thing to do,’ he says, starting to cough, ‘but I’ve got to do something.’

  ‘It’ll make you feel better,’ I tell him. ‘Now go and sit down, I’ll bring your breakfast in when it’s ready.’

  The bin under the sink needs emptying, so I take it out the back and see there’s a bit of washing that needs to come in. It’s a lovely day already, warm and sunny, just what we needed a couple of weeks ago, down in Dawlish. Thank you very much God for letting us have it now, when Bob’s gone. Laughing up there, are you, because that’s what it bloody well looks like from down here.

  After breakfast Eddie goes up for a wash and shave, while I do a bit of housework. I’m down on me hands and knees, halfway through scrubbing the kitchen floor, when there’s a knock on the door and someone’s head comes round.

  ‘Hello! Anyone home?’

  Bloody hell. It’s old mother Weiner.

  ‘Mrs Lewis! I didn’t see you down there,’ she laughs. ‘You’re up bright and early this morning.’

  ‘So are you,’ I comment.

  ‘Oh, I always am. Busy, busy, busy, that’s me. How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’m all right, thank you. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I just came to make sure everything’s all right. I had a call out in the middle of the night, and when I came back I noticed your lights on, so I just popped in to see if there’s anything I can do.’

  Yeah, mind your own bleeding business, you nosy old cow, that’s what you can do, I want to say, but I don’t. ‘We’re all fine,’ I tell her. ‘Just a call of nature, that’s why the lights was on. Got to finish this now, so if you’ll excuse me.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. Didn’t mean to bother you. Well, you know where I am if you need me.’

  How Eddie has time for that woman I’ll never know, but seeing as he has time for everyone I suppose it’s too much to expect him to make an exception for her. I bloody wish he would though, she might not be quite so ready to keep popping in here then.

  He goes off back up Flo’s about eight o’clock and just after the children start getting up. All that thumping and bumping around up there, makes you wonder what on earth they’re up to. Give it five more minutes and one of them’ll be crying. I wait for it, but it doesn’t happen, so I wait for the sound of the flush instead, because I know one of them’s in the bathroom, but that doesn’t happen either. Lazy sods. I suppose Gary might not be able to reach, but Susan’s old enough to stop being scared of witches gushing out by now.

  I give them their breakfast, then tell them to stay at the table because I’ve got something to tell them. If you’ve ever seen such a pair of guilty faces you’ll be looking at someone in front of a judge. You should see the pair of them. Makes me wonder what on earth they’ve been up to to be this worried.

  ‘Your Uncle Bob . . .’ I’m not sure how to put it now I’ve started. ‘Well, your Uncle Bob died last night,’ I say.

  Susan’s eyes grow bigger and bigger. ‘Why?’ she asks.

  What a bloody question. Trust her. ‘He just did,’ I say. ‘It happens like that sometimes. People die.’

  Her face starts to crumple. ‘I don’t want him to be dead,’ she says.

  ‘Nor me,’ Gary says, though I know he doesn’t understand what we’re talking about.

  ‘It’s not a case of what you want, my love,’ I tell her.

  ‘But he’s not even very old and Dad said people don’t die unless they’re very old.’

  ‘Well, usually they don’t.’

  ‘That means Julie and Karen aren’t going to have a dad, and that’s not fair.’

  ‘I know it’s not fair, but there’s nothing we can do about it. We just have to be brave and say our prayers that he’s gone to heaven.’

  ‘I don’t want him to go to heaven!’ she shouts. ‘I want him to stay here.’

  ‘Now, now. That’s just being silly.’

  ‘No it’s not.’

  ‘Yes it is, and don’t answer back in that tone of voice.’

  Gary’s mouth is a little O as he watches us, and I want to squeeze him. It makes me wish Susan was still his age, when she was a lot easier to handle.

  ‘Come on, my love,’ I say to her. ‘Stop crying and go on out to play. I’ll call you in when your dinner’s ready.’

  Off she goes, Gary trailing after her. That’s the good thing about kids, they don’t really understand what’s going on, so it’s all soon forgotten. Our Susan concerns me a bit though, because sometimes I think she understands more than is good for her. It’s hard to tell, and I don’t want to pry in case she starts asking questions I won’t be able to answer. It’s all best left alone where kids are concerned. The less they know, the less they can get their imaginations going, and God knows that girl of mine has got one of those.

  I suppose we just have to consider it a blessing that Julie and Karen are still so young. They won’t know any different after a couple of months, poor little loves, and though it’s not very good for them to grow up without a father, you never know, Flo might get married again. She’ll need to, or how the heck’s she going to pay all the bills?

  Susan

  Julie and Karen are staying at our house today while Uncle Bob gets buried. It’s happening up Kingswood church, and lots of people will be there, mainly from the buses, but there’ll be all his family, plus all his neighbours and other friends too. There’s even been something about him in the paper, which goes to show how popular he was, things like: In loving memory of Evan Robert Lewis, may you rest in peace, Eddie and Eddress; or: To a dear husband and father, we’ll miss you, Flo, Julie and Karen. There were lots and lots like that, taking up almost all of one column, more than anyone else who died the same day.

  Because she’s on Mum’s side of the family Gran’s here looking after us. Mum hasn’t gone to the funeral though, only Dad’s gone there, because Mum had to go to hospital for one of her treatments. She wanted to go, but Dad said no, she had to keep her appointment.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ she said, ‘he’s family.’

  ‘Eddress, I’m not going to argue about it. Either you go up that hospital on your own, or I’ll miss the funeral and take you there myself.’

  Well, she couldn’t make
him miss his own brother’s funeral could she, so she’s gone up Cossham now, and Dad’s going to pick her up on his way home, the way he always does.

  I keep trying not to mind about Uncle Bob dying, but it’s hard not to when I really, really want him to come back.

  ‘If we pray very hard,’ I said to Dad, ‘will God let him come back then?’

  ‘No my love,’ he answered.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because God needs him in heaven now.’

  ‘But Julie and Karen need their dad, can’t we tell God that? I think He’ll understand. We can ask Canon Radford to talk to Him for us. God listens to him.’

  ‘I’m sure He does, but you know what it says in the Bible, God moves in mysterious ways, so we have to accept that God has chosen to take your Uncle Bob now, and not try to understand why.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because that’s how it is.’

  I looked at Mum.

  ‘It’s best that you put it out of your mind now,’ she told me. ‘That’s what me and Dad are doing, so you try to do the same.’

  I keep trying, and sometimes it works, but then it comes back again and I feel angry with God for being so mean. I don’t think I’ll go to church any more, because if that’s how He’s going to be, He doesn’t deserve to have anyone worshipping Him. I didn’t mind saying my prayers with Dad last night though, because we were asking Jesus to bless Julie and Karen and take care of them.

  I don’t know if Jesus heard, but I’m helping to look after them this afternoon. They’re sitting on the settee next to each other looking very little and lost, so I have to think up some jokes to make them laugh. Usually it’s easy-peasy because they laugh at everything, but even my one about the earwig going over the cliff doesn’t seem to be working today. Karen just wants her mum and Julie’s trying to comfort her.

  I know, Julie and Gary both start school next week, so I’m going to take them up to my bedroom and get out my blackboard to teach them some sums.

  They get them all wrong, but I get them right, so I can tell them the answers. Then it makes them giggle when I tell Gary to go and stand in the corner with his hands on his head.

  We do spelling next. I give Julie and Karen easy ones, like ‘mum’ and ‘dad’ and ‘yes’ and ‘no’ (Karen can’t do it because she’s only three, but Julie gets them all right so I give her a gold star). It makes them giggle again when I tell Gary that if he wants to come out of the corner he has to spell supercalifraglisticexpealidotious. He sings it instead, jumping up and down on my bed, until he falls off and bumps his head and goes crying to Gran.

  After, we go outside to play ring-a-ring o’ roses on the lawn, which they seem to like, then I let them play with my twin dolls’ pram, and we have the good idea of putting Karen in, so she can be the baby. She doesn’t hurt herself very much when the brakes don’t work and the pram rolls off down the street into the wall. Just a bit of a bump as she got tipped out, which I rubbed and kissed better, then put a plaster on, because children always like wearing plasters. (She bumped her head, but I put the plaster on her knee so everyone could see it.)

  By the time Mum and Dad come home, Julie, Karen and Gary have all fallen asleep and I’m sitting out on the kerb, getting worried in case God has decided to take my mum and dad to keep Uncle Bob company. It would be really mean if He did, so I must try to be extra specially good to make sure He doesn’t.

  When I see the car I jump up and wave, and run round to open Mum’s door as soon as they’ve stopped.

  ‘Hello my old love,’ she says. ‘Have you been a good girl for your gran?’

  ‘Yes. She’s asleep. So’s everyone else.’

  ‘Stand back,’ Dad says, coming round to our side, ‘let me give your mother a hand to get out.’

  I walk up the garden path behind them, going slow because Mum can’t go any faster. Dad’s helping her, and I’m carrying her handbag. She goes straight up to bed to sleep off her headache, and when Dad comes back down he takes Julie and Karen home. Gary goes with him for a ride in the car, so I stay and help Gran to make some tea. She can’t stand up for long though, so I have to do most of it. I’m not allowed to do chips, or fried eggs, or anything with hot fat, but I can make beans on toast, or grilled fish fingers and peas. Tonight though we’re just having sandwich-spread sandwiches and a packet of smoky bacon crisps.

  I take some up to Mum, but she’s asleep, so I put it on the floor and sit down on the edge of her bed to have a think. I don’t really know what I’m thinking about though, because I still don’t understand why God had to take Uncle Bob.

  ‘What are you doing there?’ Mum says in a whisper.

  ‘Just having a sit-down,’ I say.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  I nod. ‘Can I get in for a cuddle?’ I ask.

  ‘Come on then.’

  When I’m lying down next to her I stare up at the ceiling and look along all the cracks, imagining they’re roads that go through outer space to heaven. I wonder if Uncle Bob can see me, and tell what I’m thinking. He must want to come back, but people who are dead can’t unless God says so.

  ‘Did you play nicely with Julie and Karen today?’ Mum asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘That’s my girl.’

  ‘Mum,’ I say.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘God’s not going to take you away, is He?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  I’m glad she said that. I feel a little bit happier now. Then I feel worried again. ‘Mum, would you be sad if God took Daddy away the way He took Uncle Bob?’

  ‘Oh my goodness, what a question,’ she sighs.

  ‘I would,’ I tell her.

  ‘God’s not going to take any of us, so stop worrying your head about things that are never going to happen.’

  ‘But how do you know? He might, and if He won’t let Dad come back . . .’

  ‘Susan, that’s enough now.’

  I don’t say anything else for ages, then when I think it’s all right to speak again, I say, ‘Mum?’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘I don’t want anyone to die ever again unless they’re very, very old, even much older than Gran.’

  ‘All right then.’

  ‘Is that a promise?’

  She sighs again. ‘Go on down with your gran now, there’s a good girl. Let me get some sleep.’

  I go back outside to sit on the kerb and wait for Dad again, but then I play hopscotch with Janet and Sarah, and ‘May I’ with everyone else. One of the boys says, ‘I know, let’s play doctors and nurses,’ but that’s rude, so I say no. I’m being good in case God’s watching, I don’t want Him taking me away for being naughty. But then a cloud goes over, which means He can’t see, so I creep round to Janet’s shed, where she’s being the nurse and Geoffrey’s being the doctor, while the others take it in turns to be patients.

  When it’s my turn I lie down on the floor, but then I get up again, because I’m afraid God might be watching. If He is, He might make me die, so I run home and tell Him I’m really, really sorry, and then I promise never to be wicked again.

  I’m back at school now, in the third year, so I’m growing up fast, but I still have to wear these stupid glasses, and skirts all the way down to my knees. Some of the girls are wearing minis, but Mum says, ‘absolutely not, and don’t ask again.’

  We’re on playtime, so I’m in the playground, sitting on the wall. The wind has turned bitter, so we’ve all got our coats on, and the teachers keep telling us to run around to keep warm. I want to, but I haven’t got anyone to play with. Sophie told everyone that people who live down my way are as common as muck, so now no-one wants to be my friend. Anyway, I don’t care. Just because she lives in a big house, and her parents are rich, she thinks she’s better than everyone else, well she won’t think that when I’ve smashed her head in. I can do it. I can beat her up any time, and all her stupid, stuck-up friends.

  Kelvin Milton’s teasing me again. He keeps
running up and pushing me, then running away again.

  ‘Ha, ha, ha, ha, Susan hasn’t got any friends,’ he sings.

  ‘You smell,’ I tell him.

  ‘You mean you smell, that’s why no-one wants to play with you.’

  ‘You’re just dumb and can’t get any of the answers right in maths.’

  ‘Who are you calling dumb?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘I’ll smash your face in if you say it again.’

  ‘You’re dumb,’ I say.

  He comes and smashes my face in, and breaks my glasses. I don’t care, it means I don’t have to wear them now, and he’s being sent to the headmaster. Serve him right. He’s a nasty smelly little worm with spots on.

  Mrs Fields, my new teacher, Sellotapes up my glasses and writes a note to Mum explaining what happened. I think she’s afraid Mum might come and kick up a fuss, but Mum’s in bed, so she can’t. She’s in bed nearly all the time now, but she’ll be up and about again by Christmas.

  At the next playtime, in the afternoon, someone says, ‘Do you want to be my friend?’

  It’s Caroline Fry, the new girl who just started this term. She sits next to Kelvin Milton in class, about three rows in front of me. I’m sitting next to Paul Bridges who’s all right, except for his great big nose and crooked teeth.

  ‘I’ll play with you if you like,’ she says.

  I shrug. ‘All right. What do you want to play?’

  ‘Chase? I’ll be on it first.’

  We run around, weaving in and out of everyone, jumping over skipping ropes, and whizzing round circles playing farmer’s in his den. She catches me as I crash into a game of oranges and lemons, and bring two girls down on top of me. They kick and punch me for being so stupid, so I kick and punch them back, and start to cry.

  ‘Cry baby, cry baby,’ they chant, dancing around me.

  ‘Get out of the way and leave her alone,’ Caroline tells them.

  ‘You don’t want to be her friend, you should be ours,’ Ruth Parker says.

  ‘Yeah, why don’t you be in our gang,’ Lizzie Phelps pipes up.

  ‘No, please don’t leave me out,’ I say. ‘I’ll do anything you want. Let me play too.’