by Daisy Tate
‘Thank you for coming,’ Sue turned back to Flo.
‘Oh, love. How could I not? We not,’ she added nodding at the Indian girl. ‘Raven here was at the station next to me when I took your call. I was ever so fluttery afterwards. Just couldn’t focus. She had to make me a hot chocolate in the end.’ Raven nodded as if confirming an alibi. Flo winced apologetically. ‘You don’t mind me saying I was a bit upset after you rang off, do you, love? Normally, I don’t let them get to me, the calls, but …’ She finished the sentence with a one of those shakes of the head that said, I’m only human.
Her reaction hit Sue straight in the heart. Flo had cared. It meant more than she could express. This virtual stranger had come to her husband’s wake when only a few of his mates from the football had come to the funeral then left amidst a smattering of mumbled apologies that they had to get back to work. All of them? Not that she knew what she’d say to them, but at least it would’ve meant fewer sandwiches for her mother to fret over. Made the room feel less bare.
Her niece and nephew had been kept away. As if Gary’s death was some awful, humiliating secret she’d be forced to keep for the rest of her life.
‘Sorry for your loss.’ Raven said breaking the silence that followed.
‘Thank you, Raven,’ Sue said, meaning it. ‘Thank you for coming.’
Raven. It wasn’t a very Indian name. Then again, her accent and style choices weren’t either, so perhaps Raven had been born to a family of British warlocks. A distant cousin of that goth from Bake Off. Who knew? Who knew anything these days, the world being the way it was. Chaos everywhere. One minute you’re making toad-in-the-hole and watching Neighbours on catch-up, realise you’re out of ketchup, and think that’s the calamity. So you get the ketchup, race back to the kitchen because the timer’s going on the oven, pull it out in the knick of time, catch your breath, problem solved, only to find yourself in the stairwell looking up at your husband’s feet. Was this Gary’s fault because he wouldn’t eat toad-in-the-hole without ketchup?
‘Right, we’ll see you at work sometime soon, then?’ Flo prompted.
‘Yes, I’m — I’m due in next week.’
‘So soon?’ Flo looked shocked.
‘It’ll be good for me,’ Sue said. ‘Getting back to the routine. Keeping busy.’
Flo pressed a hand to her forearm and gave it a compassionate squeeze. As if she somehow knew that none of Sue’s debit cards were working. That she’d had to ask her father to pay for the funeral until she sorted it out. That she’d told him she’d muddled up the security codes when she’d been to the florists, but the truth was, there wasn’t any money in their joint account. It seemed Gary had been quite the plumber, but not so talented at book keeping. Not that she’d looked into things with any great detail. Three weeks in and she’d still not been back to the house, called the bank, gone through his paperwork. Nothing. All she knew was that the account she thought had their life savings in it was empty.
‘Here you are love,’ Beverly triumphantly presented her daughter with a bent aluminium tray of cling film covered tuna and sweetcorn. ‘Take these. They’ll see you through until tomorrow.’
Gary’s favourite. There was no chance she could have them in the house. Not tonight anyway. Perhaps tomorrow she’d regret not gorging on them as if she were reclaiming some of the time she’d never have with her husband, but tonight … No. She couldn’t face it.
‘It’s alright, mum. You take them.’
‘What? You know how your father is with tuna in the fridge. He’d go daft.’
Sue looked at her mother as if seeing a complete stranger. Couldn’t today be the one day her father pretended not to mind? The one day her mother championed her daughter over her son?
‘I’ll take them, love.’ Flo took the platter. ‘My Stuart’ll eat them. I’ll pass on his thanks in advance.’
Sue smiled gratefully and watched them go. She liked Flo. Barely knew her to say hello, but perhaps at work, if they were on the same shift, she’d take the time to ask, ‘How are you?’
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About the Author
Daisy Tate loves telling stories. Telling them in books is even better. When not writing, she raises stripey, Scottish cows, performs in amateur dramatics, pretends her life is a musical and bakes cakes that will never win her a place on a television baking show. She was born in the USA but has never met Bruce Springsteen. She now calls East Sussex home.
daisy.tate92167
@DaisyTatetastic
www.daisytatewrites.com
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