The Last List of Mabel Beaumont

I don’t speak a single word on the drive back to my house, and when he pulls up outside, I’ve got the door open before he’s put the handbrake on.

‘Slow down, Mabel! Look, I know it’s disappointing that Catherine couldn’t lead you straight to Dot, couldn’t confirm whether she’s… still with us, but I really think she helped, don’t you?’

But I’m out of the car and walking up the path to my front door. He gets out too, and I’m fiddling with my key when I hear his door slam shut.

‘Mabel, have I done something to upset you?’

I turn around and he’s right behind me. ‘Don’t ever put your hand on me again.’

He laughs and holds both hands up. ‘Come on, it’s hardly as if I was making a pass at you. We’re a bit old for all that, aren’t we? It was nothing, Mabel. Just reassurance.’

‘We’re not friends, Reg. We were never friends, and it’s no different now, just because we’re old. I don’t need you to drive me places and I certainly don’t need you to touch me.’

As I say those last words, I see Julie rounding the corner.

‘What’s happening, Mabel? Are you all right?’

Reg starts to back away, but Julie has to come past him and she gives him a sharp look.

‘You try to do someone a favour…’ he says.

‘I want you to go,’ I say.

‘You heard her,’ Julie says.

So he goes. And once he’s pulled away, Julie puts her arms around me and it’s only then I realise I’m feeling a bit shaky.

‘What did he do to you?’ Julie whispers it into my hair, and I feel so safe like that, with her, and it’s all I can do not to start weeping.

‘It’s nothing,’ I say.

‘It didn’t sound like nothing to me. Come on, let’s get you inside and get the kettle on.’

And it’s just what I need. I let her lead me into my home and get me settled. And then she sits and listens while I tell her all about my dealings with Reg Bishop, both recent and in the past.





27





When I wake up on Christmas morning, Arthur’s lying next to me.

‘Happy Christmas, Arthur,’ I say, just like I have for the past sixty-two years.

I desperately need to empty my bladder, but I know when I do, he’ll go, so I hold on as long as I can. Think about other Christmases.

‘Do you remember the year we were short on cash and decided not to give each other presents?’ I ask aloud. ‘You’d gone out at the last minute on Christmas Eve and bought me some Quality Street, said you couldn’t bear to give me nothing at all, and I was so cross with you because I’d stuck to the rule we’d made together and ended up looking like the mean one. We didn’t really speak for half the day, but it was forgotten by dinnertime and then we shared the chocolates on the sofa in front of a James Bond film.’

It’s no good, I have to go. When I return, the bed is empty, just as I knew it would be.

I go downstairs and make a pot of tea, tell myself it’s just like any other day. Because it is, isn’t it? It’s just a date. Julie helped me put the artificial tree up a week or so ago. I wasn’t going to bother but she asked if I had one and I admitted I did. She went up in the loft for it. That was always Arthur’s job. We used to get a real one, years ago, because there’s nothing quite like the smell of them, but when Arthur suggested getting ‘one of those fake things’ a few years back, I went along with it. Yesterday, when Julie was leaving, after she’d checked three or four times that I’d be all right today without her calling in, she put a big gift bag under the tree and said I wasn’t to look in it until this morning. So I take my tea through to the front room and bring the bag over to my armchair.

There are three presents inside, all wrapped nicely with bows and ribbons and things. Neatly labelled. One from Julie, one from Kirsty, one from Patricia. I pushed cards through their letterboxes but I didn’t think about presents and now I feel awful. Perhaps they took pity on me, what with it being my first Christmas on my own. I open Patricia’s first, and it’s a beautiful blue cardigan, the softest wool I’ve ever felt, and when I check the label, I gasp out loud because it’s cashmere. I hold it up to my cheek. This would have cost a fortune. I know she’s got money, but why would she spend it on me? I’m a bit taken aback, and I finish my tea before opening the others. Kirsty’s is a calendar and matching diary with a dog that looks just like Olly on the cover. So thoughtful. And Julie’s, well, at first I’m not sure what it is. It’s a necklace, that much is obvious. But there are small silver discs with letters stamped on them and I can’t work out what they spell. M-A-B-D. I’ll have to ask her next time she’s here. I’ll have to ask her to put it on for me, too. The clasp is a bit fiddly.

I’m a little overwhelmed, sitting there with the torn wrapping around me. I felt like these women were slipping away, but perhaps it’s just a period of adjustment. These gifts show that they still care.

I’ve bought myself a selection of tiny Danish pastries for breakfast, because I’ve been hankering after another croissant since Erin brought me one, so I set up a plate and get myself an orange juice, and I sit at the dining table and savour every bite. But after they’ve all gone, I feel a bit desperate. It feels like there are too many hours stretching ahead and nothing to fill them. I’ve got so used to having Julie here for a couple of hours each day – she often calls in at the weekend, too, so I rarely have a full day on my own, and if I do I make sure I get out and go to the shops and at least see some people. But nothing’s open, of course. I feel a panic start to rise in me and give myself a stern talking to. I put the television on, something I never usually do this early, and try to lose myself in a kids’ film.

Next thing I know, there’s a knock at the door. I check my watch. Quarter past eleven. I must have dozed off. Who would be here, now, on Christmas Day? I get up, rub my back and make my way to the front door, all the time wondering who could possibly be standing on the other side of it. If it’s Julie, breaking up her cosy Christmas with Martin to check on me, I’ll be cross with her. But it’s not. It’s Erin. And she looks small, and her face is streaked with tears.

‘I’m so sorry to turn up on Christmas Day,’ she says.

‘It’s all right, it doesn’t matter,’ I say. ‘Do you want to come in?’

She nods and steps inside, slips her shoes off. Looks even smaller, then. I lead her into the front room. She’s never been here before, and for a second I can’t work out how she knew where I lived, but then I remember the evening we went to Patricia’s dancing class, Julie dropping me off first and Erin waving from the car.

‘Can I get you something?’ I ask, remembering my manners. ‘A tea or coffee?’

‘Just water, please,’ she says. ‘I can get it, if you point me in the right direction.’

‘I’ll do it,’ I say. ‘You sit down.’

I bring her water and find some biscuits in a cupboard. It doesn’t feel very festive, but I haven’t got anything else, really.

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