The Last List of Mabel Beaumont(75)

At the wake, at our house, the drinks flowed. I felt light-headed and sore with sadness. The sandwiches Mother and I had made that morning went mostly untouched, their edges hardening. But the empty bottles piled up, clinking. After hours of avoidance, Dot took me by the hand and led me outside.

‘I can’t breathe in there,’ she said.

I didn’t know how to be around her any more, after years of natural friendship. Had we broken something? But no, it felt like mending. Like transcending. I couldn’t look at her, not at her face. I fixed my eyes on her right arm.

‘The other day,’ she said, ‘I don’t know what happened. I…’

I didn’t let her finish, since I was certain she was about to minimise it. I gathered my courage, every last drop of it, and leaned in to kiss her lips. But she pulled away, as I thought she might, and we both turned, feeling eyes on us, and saw Reg Bishop standing a couple of metres away, lighting a cigarette. He raised one eyebrow.

‘Ladies,’ he said.

That single word, a threat. We went inside without speaking, and for the rest of the afternoon the tension pulsed from Dot, and I was forced to accept that she cared more than I did about what people thought.

There were only a few people left when Reg made his move. He was sloppy drunk and draping his arm around every woman there, and I froze when he approached Dot and me and came in between us, flinging an arm around each of our shoulders.

‘These two,’ he said, ‘have quite the friendship, don’t they?’

The stragglers carried on with their own conversations, but I saw Arthur look up and over to where we were standing.

‘In fact, it seems to me like they might be more than just friends. Twice, now, these past few days, I’ve caught them in rather compromising positions.’

‘How dare you?’ Arthur asked, stepping forward. ‘This is a wake, in case you’d forgotten. And Dot and Mabel are grieving, comforting one another. Don’t you dare imply there’s something seedy going on.’

Reg guffawed and looked at me, then at Dot, then finally at Arthur.

‘I know you’ve got a soft spot for this one,’ he said, squeezing my shoulder, ‘but sometimes you need to see what’s in front of your face.’

I shook him off, walked over to where Arthur was standing, a few feet away. A couple of other people had turned to look, by then, sensing an argument brewing.

‘Can you ask him to leave?’ I asked Arthur, quietly.

‘I’ll tell him,’ he said.

I watched Arthur showing Reg to the door. If you hadn’t heard any of what had passed, you wouldn’t have known there was any ill-feeling between them. When he returned, he adjusted his tie and cleared his throat, and I nodded my thanks, and the matter was closed.

In the months that followed, Dot pulled away from me. Slowly, so slowly I knew I’d look like I was being needy if I mentioned it to anyone. But I saw what she was doing. That day had changed everything, and the easiest thing to do was to pretend it had never happened. I cried myself to sleep for months, never really knowing whether it was him or her that I was crying for.

And then I woke up a little, from my grief, and Arthur saw that small crack opening, and filled it with love. Asked me to marry him. There was no one else, was there? Or at least, no other conceivable option. I said yes. When I told her, I genuinely thought she’d see that I was clinging to that time, when the four of us were together, in the only way I knew. Doing the only thing I could. But she left, instead.

I am still on the ground, the soft earth pliant beneath my knees, the solid gravestones in front of me, reminding me that some things don’t change.

‘That’s it,’ I say, pushing myself up, slowly, slowly. ‘That’s the truth of it.’

If I’d found a way to tell any of them, would they have understood? I take them one by one, considering. Dad was a big fan of Arthur’s, and he liked things to be steady and predictable, to go the way he expected. No, he wouldn’t have understood this. Mother? Well, her heart was already broken, so perhaps one more crack wouldn’t have mattered too much? Or perhaps it would. Perhaps it would have been the thing to tip her over. And Bill. My darling Bill. It’s possible that Bill would have understood how I loved her, because he loved her the same way. I imagine him taking hold of both of my hands, and telling me that only one of us could win. That it could only go one way. And he would have been right.

It was a different time. When love was sometimes treated as a crime.

I know I shouldn’t, but I reach out and pick a daffodil, hold it up to the light and take in its simple beauty. I will take it home and put it in a jam jar, and remember.

When people saw Bill and Dot and Arthur and me, they saw two pairs, two couples. And they were almost right. It’s just that the pieces didn’t go exactly where they thought. It wasn’t their fault. It was the only way they knew to put the pieces together. I was the foolish one for going along with it, just because Arthur and I were the only two left. Arthur loved me. Bill and I both loved Dot. And who did Dot love?

I walk away, round to Arthur’s grave. Do I need to tell him, too? Yes. For completeness. Because this is what I’ve always wanted to tell him, the words that have always been stuck. And now he’s dead, and she’s dead, and my tongue is finally loosened, my throat clear.