“Ere,” says Vince, coming back from the bar with more drinks, ‘have you heard about Matty moving in with Claire?”
“Is this true?” I say, turning round and slapping Matty on the back. “Are you really planning on moving in with her?”
“Yeah,” says Matty bashfully. “I am. She’s coming down from Newcastle in a couple of weeks and we’re gonna get a flat together and that.”
“How did Kate take it?”
“I don’t think she gives a toss,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “She’s more pissed off that she didn’t manage to ruin things between you and Alison. She still can’t stand the fact that you managed to get in there before her.”
“Well,” I say, not wanting to dig over old ground, “I’m dead pleased for you, Matty. I hope it all works out.”
“Thanks,” he says anxiously, “I hope so too. But Vince says I’ve got to be especially careful. On account of the language barrier.”
“The language barrier?”
“Yeah. Apparently it can put quite a strain on a relationship when you both speak different languages.”
“Matty, what are you on about? Claire’s English.”
“Yeah, but she’s a Geordie, though, isn’t she? And they’ve got a whole different language, haven’t they? Vince reckons it’s a bit like Welsh.”
“Welsh?”
“Yeah, except you never get to hear it, because they only use it with each other. In private. Like a secret communication sort of thing.”
“Matty’s planning on learning,” says Vince, shooting me a grin. “I said I’d get him a book.”
I give Vince the nod and join in.
“So, Matty,” I say, ‘have you had a good look at her toes yet?”
“Her toes?
“Yeah, they have webbed toes, don’t they, your Geordies. Like the Man from Atlantis. One in five of them, I heard it was.”
Matty stares into his drink for a moment. And then he starts to laugh.
“Yeah, right,” he says, shaking his head, ‘that’s a good one. Webbed toes. Fuck me, you’re having me on again, aren’t you?”
We don’t say anything. Matty begins to look worried.
“You are, yeah? Aren’t you? I mean, you are joking, right?”
“Yes, mate,” I say. “We are. We are most definitely having you on.”
“Cool,” he says, looking relieved. “I thought so. Now then, Vince, where did you say I could get hold of that book?”
It’s first thing in the morning and I’m woken by the irritating cheep of my brand-new mobile phone. It was Alison’s idea that I get one probably so she could keep track of me but it’s Kostas that calls me the most. He’s immensely keen on text messaging, for some reason, and ever since I told him I was leaving he’s been sending me useless bits of information on a regular basis. It’s an odd mixture of stuff: meatball recipes, video reviews, the odd weather report usually from Cyprus and sometimes he just likes to call me to make sure that I’m up.
I can’t be bothered to read it. Most of the time I can’t even understand what he’s trying to say. He’s learnt every single abbreviation in the Mobile User’s Handbook, and it takes me longer to work out the words than it does for Kostas to write the message in the first place. Sod it. There it goes again. I suppose I might as well see what he wants.
Dny urgnt Shla tkn z hsptl Cum right awy C u thr luv Ksts.
I jump in the car and drive over to the hospital as quickly as I can. Kostas is pretty easy to find. He’s sitting in the A8cE waiting room, wedged between a snoring drunk and a heavily pregnant woman, and it’s obvious he’s been crying. I’m a little taken aback to see it: this strong, solid bear of a man, blinking back the tears from his eyes and dabbing at his cheeks with one of the pregnant lady’s tissues. I can feel my throat begin to tighten. I know what he’s going to say. I’m already too late.
Kostas sees me coming and stands up to give me a hug. His
heavy arms wrap themselves around my shoulders and he sniffs a little before he speaks.
“She is gone,” he says simply. “I am very sads, Danny. She is already gone.”
I flop down opposite him on one of the cracked plastic seats and listen quietly while he fills me in. She had a heart attack, he says, she was brought in by ambulance late last night. She never even managed to regain consciousness. They tried everything that they possibly could.
Kostas offers me a spare tissue and I find myself pulling it apart in my hand. I can’t believe it. I can’t seem to take it all in. I’m sad and angry in equal measure, but the thing that’s bothering me most is the fact that she died alone. Sheila liked company. She made every effort to seek it out. She loved to while away her afternoons chatting to me and Kostas at the video counter, she loved pottering in and out of all the Broadway shops. She spent every lunch-time drinking tea in her favourite cafe just so she could be around other people. Someone ought to have been with her. Someone she knew. No one should have to die alone.
Kostas goes to the bathroom to wash his face and I search out one of the nurses who looked after Sheila when she was brought in. She does her best, she tells me the standard things: Sheila wasn’t in any pain, she wouldn’t have known what was happening to her. It was a blessing, she says, she passed away very peacefully in the end.
I take it all in. I nod and smile and try to be polite but I’m not entirely sure that it’s true. I’m grateful that she wasn’t in any pain but I doubt that her death was peaceful; I don’t think it ever really is. I imagine she fought it, I imagine she clung to life as hard as she possibly could. That would have been Sheila’s way. She wouldn’t have given up without a fight.
The waiting room begins to fill with new faces and the two of us sit for a while, watching them, trying to work out what to do next. There’s no point hanging around in the hospital, but for some reason neither of us wants to
leave. Kostas suggests we walk up to the cafeteria for a drink; he thinks we could both use a cup of coffee before we head home.
“I’m going to miss her very much,” says Kostas, staring into his steaming paper cup.
“Yeah,” I say, “I’m going to miss her too.”
“She was a very great lady.”
“Yeah, Kostas,” I say, ‘she really was. Remember when she first came into the shop, remember when she asked for a copy of Enter the Dragon’} You’d already fished out a copy of Driving Miss Daisy, hadn’t you? Do you remember the look on her face?”
Kostas shakes his head. I thought this story would make him feel a little better but it seems to have made him even more sad.
“I don’t know, Danny,” he says, shaking his head miserably, ‘maybe it was all too much for her.”
“What do you mean? She loved coming to visit us, it was a really important part of her day.”
“Yes, I know, but maybe there is something more we could have done.”
“Come on, Kostas,” I say, attempting to cheer him up, ‘we both kept a good eye on her, didn’t we? I looked after her garden, you used to pop round with hot meals from Mrs. Kostas, and you heard what the nurses said, they’re sure she wasn’t in any pain.”
“But Danny,” he says sombrely, “I feel terrible. Maybe it is our faults that she is dead.”
I stare down at my vending-machine coffee and watch the thick bubbles of milk powder struggle to reach the surface. Maybe Kostas is right. I could see she was looking tired when I went to visit her the other day. Maybe I should have phoned her daughter. Maybe I should have called the doctor and asked him to come round and check on her. I feel guilty, like I’ve let her down. I can’t believe she spent the whole afternoon feeding
me biscuits and trying to cheer me up when she was obviously feeling unwell.
Kostas nods his head.
“All these things are true, Danny,” he says gravely, ‘but I am afraid is much worse than that. I really think maybe her deaths had something to do with us.”
I’m not sure what he means. I’m about to tell him he’s being daft but I can tell by his expression that he’s serious. He seems uncomfortable. He seems genuinely worried about something.
“What is it, Kostas?” I say, urging him on. “What is it that’s bothering you?”
“Well,” he says, rubbing his chin, ‘she had a heart attacks, didn’t she?”
“Yes, she did. But I suppose that’s just the way things are. She was an old lady. The nurse said it could have happened at any time.”
“Yes,” he says, shifting uneasily in his seat, ‘but didn’t you hear what that doctor said? He said Sheila had her heart attacks in front of the television, while she was watching a Kostas video.”
“You’re kidding?”
“No,” he says, lifting his hand to his forehead, “I am afraid is true, right in the middle of Fist of Fury. Just as Bruce Lee is taking revenge on his most deadly of rivals. Is a terrible thing, Danny. Her next-doors neighbour heard her knocking over the giant biscuits tin when she dropped her remotes control. What? .. . Why are you smiling? .. . Danny, this is not some kind of a funny jokes…”
He’s right, I know he’s right, but somehow I can’t seem to help myself. I think it would have made her smile too. Given the choice, I’m pretty sure that’s exactly the way she would have wanted to go.
My first instinct when I get home is to pour myself a large drink. The journey back from the hospital has left me feeling
drained and depressed and there’s something about the piles of cardboard boxes and the blankness of the bare plaster walls that makes me feel even worse.
Everything is changing. In another week I’ll be leaving this place for good, and the truth is I’m going to miss it. I’m going to miss Vince phoning me at all hours of the day and night. I’m going to miss Kostas badgering me to get up and come into work. I’m going to miss Matty and the shop and my endless battles with the shower and everything about being in the band. And I’m going to miss Sheila. More than I realised. In her own way I think she believed in me more than anybody else.
I lift a cold bottle of beer out of the fridge, but something makes me put it back. I suddenly want to speak to Alison. I want to pick up the phone and speak to someone I love. In the end it doesn’t matter what I’m giving up here. This isn’t about what I want any more: this is about the two of us.
I lift the receiver and dial Alison’s number by heart. I count the rings until she answers and wait for the intense familiarity of her voice. Sheila once told me she was married for almost fifty years. And I hope that means something. I hope that means she never felt truly alone.
“Hey, it’s me.”
“Hi. How’s the packing going?”
“Fine, it’s going fine. But listen… I’ve got something to tell you… I’ve got some sad news.”
I finish the call and gather my thoughts for a moment. It was good to speak to her. Our conversations have felt pretty strained over the last few weeks, but she seemed a little more open this time. I could feel her coming back. I could sense the tenderness in her voice when I told her about Sheila, and it’s the first time I’ve felt she still cares. That’s the kind of person she is, she couldn’t stop herself. Even though she’s a long way from forgiving me, her instinct was still to reach
out. It’s a good sign. I suppose I’ve got Sheila to thank in a way.
Alison said something else as well. Something that made a lot of sense. She said given how much I’m going to miss Sheila I should make a proper effort to keep in touch with my mum while I’m away. Maybe she’s right. Maybe this would be a good time to give her a quick call.
“Hey, Mum, it’s me.”
“Steve, I was just thinking about you. I’m so glad that you phoned. I was wondering if I’d get to see you before you left.”
“Of course you will,” I say. “I thought I might drive over tomorrow afternoon if that’s OK?”
“Good,” she says, ‘because I’ve got some very interesting job adverts for you to look at.”
“That’ll be nice,” I say. “I’ll look forward to it.”
Sheila’s funeral is something of a triumph. The small congregation is filled out with people that she’d befriended on her travels round Crouch End over the years, and several members of her family stand up and make touching speeches about her life. It makes all the difference. I remember what it was like at my grandmother’s funeral; all the speeches were left to the vicar, someone she’d never even met. He made all these well-meaning comments about how nice she was and what a kind lady she’d been, and the thing is it wasn’t really true. She’d always been a bit of a battle-axe. It made everyone feel uncomfortable. I remember thinking that it might have been better if he’d told the truth.
Today is very different. Sheila is instantly recognisable in their words. They talk about her intelligence and her humour and her unbowed lust for life, and her grandson even mentions her devotion to Bruce Lee and her love of Mr. Kipling’s cakes.
Kostas can’t quite believe it. His wide shoulders heave up and down with silent laughter when they mention Sheila’s frequent visits to his shop, and I notice Mrs. Kostas take hold of his hand and give it a quick squeeze. I just wish Alison could have been here. It’s a shame she couldn’t get the time off work. Still, at least I know she’s thinking of me. Because she called me this morning and said that she was.
Everyone heads back to Sheila’s house for tea and sandwiches after the service and I’m glad to see that everything is much the same. The hallway is full of flowers and cards, but I can still sense Sheila everywhere I turn: smiling out from the
photos on the mantelpiece, nodding approval at the selection of cakes. I’m not sure she would have approved of the paper doilies, though. I think she would have thought they were a little fussy.
I park myself on one of the wobbly kitchen chairs that are dotted about the living room, and it’s not long before Sheila’s daughter comes to find me. Her name is Grace; she’s about fifty years old with dyed blond hair and a familiar sense of mischief in her eyes.
“You must be Danny,” she says, reaching over to give me a hug. “I just wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done.”
“That’s OK,” I say, a little taken aback by her display of affection. “I didn’t do anything very much.”
“Oh yes you did,” she says emphatically. “My mother spoke about you all the time. You brought her a lot of happiness over the years, you know. She said you were quite a young man.”