You hear about couples who’ve been together for a long time dying within days or weeks of one another. Is that what I’m hoping for? I’m not eating much, not looking after myself. We’re out of milk, so I’m drinking my tea black, and the bread has mould on the edges. When I feel particularly hungry, I boil an egg. And I shake dried food into Olly’s bowl for him to fuss over and ignore.
It won’t end well, this. It can’t. The telephone’s been ringing and it’s probably the funeral parlour. They’re storing Arthur’s body and it’s time I started to get things moving with arrangements. But I’m not sure I can face it. There will be so many decisions, about music and readings and prayers, and that’s just the service. I’ll need to choose burial or cremation, pick a coffin or an urn. I can barely decide whether to watch television or read, can’t rouse myself to go to the supermarket for the essentials. I’m not in the right frame of mind to make big decisions. How do other people do this? The answer, of course, is that there are more of them, and they discuss it, spread the load between them. Between the spouse and the children and the siblings and the grandchildren. How sad for him, that there’s only me to do this.
And then, on the eighth or possibly ninth day, I wake up with a thought clanging in my head like an alarm: Enough. Enough wallowing. I’m not ready to die like this, to give up completely. If Arthur is watching, he would hate this. It would make him worry. So I get up and dressed, and I strip the bed for washing. It’s a start. I have to have a sit down, afterwards. But that’s all right. Slow and steady. I sit at the dining table with a cup of tea and my notepad and pen, and I make a list.
‘Can you see me, Arthur? Making a list?’ I say it out loud into the empty room. I can almost hear him chuckle.
1. Get in touch with friends and family
2. Contact the funeral parlour
3. Go to the supermarket
4. Clean the house
5. Find D
Arthur was always trying to get me to write lists. He liked the order and purpose of them. But I used to prefer carrying what I needed to remember in my head. Perhaps I’m becoming more like him, now he’s gone. Taking the best bits of him.
But this list is daunting, when I look at it like that. Only five things, but all of them hard in their own way. And one I can’t even attempt until I know what it means. We used to clean the house together, him with the vacuum and me with the duster. I’ll have to take it bit by bit, one room at a time. It’s clear that the first thing to do is make some telephone calls, so I get the address book and go through it. So many names crossed out. People who’ve died or who we’ve lost touch with. I land on his sister, Mary, and dial her number before I can change my mind.
‘Mary, it’s Mabel,’ I say, when she picks up. ‘Arthur’s wife.’
Saying his name aloud is a shock. It sounds the same and that feels all wrong.
‘Mabel, how are you?’
‘Not so good, I’m afraid. Bad news. Arthur’s passed away.’
How many calls like this have we taken, over the years? Arthur was often the one to answer the telephone, and I’d know from his tone when it was one of these, and I’d try to work out who from the things he said.
‘Oh, Mabel, I’m sorry.’
They weren’t close, Arthur and Mary. She lives up in the North East and I’m sure she’ll come for the funeral, but we haven’t seen much of them over the years. Like everyone else, they were busy with children and then grandchildren. Her and Arthur were the only two left of nine siblings. Just Mary, now. She asks me to give her the details of the funeral when I have them and I realise that this round of calls will lead to a second one. And it’s not until after I’ve hung up that I notice my voice held. I did the first one, which is always the hardest, and I didn’t collapse or break down or say anything I shouldn’t have said. So I take a breath, pick the receiver up again, and dial his cousin Frank. And I go on like that all morning, until I’ve spoken to everyone I can think of. I feel exhausted, but also a bit lighter.
The man who answers the telephone at the funeral parlour sounds relieved that I’ve finally got in touch.
‘We’ve been calling and calling,’ he says.
It’s as if he thinks I’ve done some kind of moonlight flit.
‘Yes, well. I’ve been… adjusting.’
He gives a bit of a grunt. ‘Mrs Beaumont, is there anyone else who can help you with all this? I understand you and Mr Beaumont didn’t have children, but are there any other relatives who are local, or good friends?’
There’s no one, really. And it makes me question whether we got something wrong somewhere along the way.
‘Just me,’ I say, and I make sure my voice is clear and strong.
‘All right. Perhaps you could come into our office on the High Street to talk through everything?’
I look at the front door, which hasn’t been opened for over a week. Since they took him, in fact. There’s a small pile of post that I haven’t got the energy to sort through just yet. Can I open that door, and walk into town, the way I used to? I think I can.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I could come in tomorrow.’
After the call, I go through my memory for any conversation about funerals or death Arthur and I ever had. I make notes. It’s surprisingly helpful. I remember that he wanted ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’, because it reminded him of being a child and life feeling simple. I remember that he wanted to be buried, because his parents are in the graveyard in town and he wanted to lie next to them. And I know that he’d want a do, with food and a bar and the opportunity for people to chat and mix. I’ll call in at the Carpenters when I go to town tomorrow, and I’ll do a food shop at the same time. It feels like a plan, and it feels manageable, just about.
I call for Olly, and he wanders over to me. When he sees the lead in my hand, he looks hopeful. And when I open the door, he starts to get really excited, pulling me along faster than I can walk for the first few yards. It’s odd, being out in the world again. There are too many things to look at, too many smells. I feel like Olly, wanting to stop and sniff things. I am a widow, I think. My name is Mabel and I am widowed. I try it on and it doesn’t quite fit, but I’m stuck with it anyway so I might as well get used to it.
I feel like I’m emerging into the light. Blinking. Everyone I see is in groups of two or three. They are laughing and touching one another and look like they have never been alone in their lives. Couples and parents with children and groups of friends.
‘We really put all our eggs in one basket, Arthur, didn’t we? And I’m not sure it was the right one.’