The Last List of Mabel Beaumont(10)

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.’

I get a funny look from a teenage boy on an electric scooter and realise I’ve spoken out loud. So I reach down, give Olly a bit of a fuss, pretend I was talking to him. I’m not thinking too much about where I’m going and before I know it, I’m at the church. We came here every Sunday when I was a child, always dressed in our best. I remember feeling itchy and uncomfortable, my hair pulled into tight pigtails and scratchy tights underneath my stiff dress. The vicar was a family friend; he’d come round for tea and biscuits sometimes, on a Saturday afternoon.

And Arthur and I were married here, of course, not by that same vicar, who was retired by then, but by his successor. I have no idea who the vicar is now. Haven’t stepped through that stone archway for many years. Today, it feels right. I tie Olly’s lead to a railing and tell him I won’t be long, and then I step into the cool, calm building, find a pew to sit down on.

I close my eyes and the next thing I know, there’s someone beside me. A man of about fifty, with a sizeable paunch and kind eyes. I’m startled at first but he puts a calming hand on my arm.

‘Are you here to speak quietly with God, or would you like some companionship?’

That pulls me up short. Did I come in here to speak to God? Or just for the peace of the place?

‘I was married here,’ I say.

He nods, as if he knows.

‘It was spring of 1961, showers on and off all day. But in between, brilliant sunshine. There was a wonderful rainbow.’

‘A bit like marriage, then,’ he says.

And he’s right, but I’ve never thought of it like that.

‘He’s gone, now,’ I say.

‘Your husband?’