The Last List of Mabel Beaumont(3)

‘Was it all right?’ I ask.

‘It was. He had a good life, Tommy. Lots of people there to see him off. Do you think there’ll be many there for us, when it’s our turn?’

He sits on the sofa and Olly comes running in to be fussed.

‘Hello, Dog,’ Arthur says.

Olly’s always liked him the most. I watch Arthur reach down to scratch behind his ears, the way both of their faces relax. I think about what he asked. For him, surely some of those family members will come, drifting in from all corners of the country. And there’s all his old clients, and the men he drinks with, those who are left. For me, I’m not so sure.

‘What’s got you thinking about that?’ I ask, but it’s a stupid question, because the answer is obvious.

‘Tommy and Moira had four children, and they were all there with their husbands and wives, and then their children. Just got me thinking, that’s all.’

There’s nothing I can say. It’s too late to go back and change anything.

‘Tea?’ he asks, getting up and disappearing from the room.

‘Yes, please.’

And all the rest of the day, I know we’re both thinking about the children we didn’t have.





2





‘There’s a market on in Overbury,’ Arthur says, tapping the teaspoon against the edge of the mug before bringing the drinks to the kitchen table.

‘What sort of market?’

‘Food, I think. Fancy a run out?’

I could say no. I want to. But he’s trying to involve me and it isn’t fair to knock him back over and over. The last ten years of our marriage have been like that, in a way. Him offering something up, me batting it back. It wasn’t always this way, and that’s the trouble. We both remember when we were partners in crime.

‘Sounds good,’ I say.

He tries to pretend he isn’t surprised. Tucks into his bran flakes.

The first problem is finding somewhere to park. For years neither of us could drive, and then Arthur learned when he was in his fifties because he likes a challenge. He passed first time, after a steady six months of lessons, but he’s never had much confidence. He drives with his worried face permanently plastered on.

‘What about over there?’ I suggest, as we circle the car park for the second time. The low winter sun is making it hard to see. ‘I think there’s a…’

‘There’s a Mini in it,’ he says, his jaw tight.

‘We could go back, if you prefer.’

It’s a fine line I’m walking. I want him to know he doesn’t have to suffer this stress for me, but I don’t want him to think I’m looking for excuses to cut the outing short. He doesn’t say anything. A young couple walk back to their car, hand in hand, and he waits, the indicator clicking. When we get out of the car, I think about taking his hand. How long is it since we walked through the streets like that, declaring our union? We certainly did it in the early years, but I don’t remember when it stopped. Was there a day when he reached for my hand and I pulled away? Or dropped his hand to adjust my handbag on my shoulder, and then never picked it up again? Though we’re walking side by side, shoulder to shoulder, it seems too big a gulf to cross now. Too huge a gesture.

There are market stalls up and down the length of the high street, smells competing for space. Candy floss, and spicy meat, and fresh bread. A buzz of chatter and the occasional shout of a stallholder.

‘Get your fresh pastries here!’

‘All bowls of fruit or veg one pound fifty. We’ve got pineapples, we’ve got mangoes, we’ve got cherries…’

‘Fresh fish caught this morning!’

I nudge Arthur. ‘Remember the fishmonger and the shrimps at Morecambe Bay?’

It’s an invitation to visit the past with me, and I hope he’ll take it. I hope he’ll remember the better times.

His face cracks wide open and he laughs. ‘That man was wasted up there, with that voice.’

We are silent for a moment, memories spooling between us. There are so many, and perhaps we can live off them.

‘Shall we pick up a pie for dinner? And there isn’t much fruit in the bowl.’

Arthur pulls a crumpled piece of paper out of his jacket pocket. Of course he’s made a list.

We choose apples and oranges, and then he points to what I think is a mango, raises his eyebrows.

‘Go on, then,’ I say.

Where does he get it from, this eternal zest for trying new things? I admired it when I first knew him, when he was just Bill’s friend who was interested in everything.

At the pie stand, we weigh up beef and onion against chicken and ham, and then I hear a voice calling his name.

‘Arthur Beaumont, is that you?’

We turn, and it’s a woman of about our age. She looks like she might once have been pretty, but it’s hard to tell with the wrinkles crowding out her features. When she smiles, her teeth look too white. She puts one arm on Arthur’s and goes up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek, then she does the same to me and she smells of roses and soap.

‘Joan Jenkins,’ he says. ‘Well, I never.’

She shakes her head and laughs. ‘I haven’t heard that name in a while. It’s been Joan Garnett since 1959.’