‘Sometimes you talk as if we’re already dead,’ he said.
I’ve always remembered that.
We go on, Olly and me. Past that new fancy bakery that smells of icing sugar and ginger and the hairdressers where Arthur’s barber shop used to be. Past the little supermarket with its sliding doors that open even if you’re just walking by, as if they’re part of a plan to lure people in, and the Carpenters, which is probably where the wake’s being held. Cigarette butts litter the pavement. I pull my wool coat a bit tighter around me and hurry along, hoping Arthur won’t see me through the window and come out.
It’s changed a bit, Broughton, over the years. It’s always had everything I need, though, with the occasional trip to Overbury for clothes or furniture. London is less than an hour away, but I’ve only ever been about once a year. Broughton is mostly enough. The shops thin out and I cross the road, take the little path up to the church. I walk among the gravestones until I find them; my family.
There’s Bill, who went first, though he shouldn’t have. Full of life one day and gone the next, one of those hidden heart conditions you hear about and never expect your brother to fall victim to. Then Mother, ten years later. She never got over his death, and though she officially died of cancer, it was quite clear to me that she gave up and started dying very slowly the day she heard her boy was gone. And then Dad, less than a year after her. Stroke. All over in a minute. Does it count as being orphaned if it happens when you’re in your thirties? Arthur’s mother treated me like one of her own but I was always aware of the fact that if I lost him, I’d be alone in the world.
I don’t think Arthur’s ever really understood that. He was one of nine and he’s always had siblings and cousins all over the place. All our lives, wherever we talked about going on our holidays, he’d have a cousin there, and they’d meet up for a drink or dinner and they’d always have that same Beaumont look. Sandy hair and freckles. My parents were both only children so we were a unit of four. Now whittled down to one.
There are leaves all over the stones, in reds and oranges. I can’t see Mother’s dates, or Dad’s full name. But it’s so pretty, this autumn scene, that it doesn’t matter. I know those things anyway, don’t I? And I’ve never really seen the point of sweeping leaves. Nature won’t be outdone.
I look over my shoulder to check there’s no one around before I speak.
‘It’s Mabel, just passing with Olly. There was something in the paper yesterday about people’s collections and I thought of you, Bill, and those stamps of yours. I showed it to Arthur and he chuckled, said he used to slip them out of your folder and hide them sometimes, for a joke, and you’d get all het up and sulk for days. What would you collect now, I wonder? If you were still here and you’d stuck with the stamps, you’d have thousands by now. I’ve kept them for you, up in the loft. Lord knows why. I suppose they’ll get thrown out when Arthur and I go, like everything else.’
Tears spring to my eyes and take me by surprise. I always have a quiet word with them when I come by here, and I don’t usually get emotional. Perhaps I’m coming down with something, or need a good night’s sleep. These days, I tend to turn like a chicken on a spit for hours before I can settle down.
I head home and wait for Arthur to return. It’s funny, I don’t mind him going out, don’t mind my own company, but I like him coming back, too. I like hearing his stories. The house feels different when he’s not in it, as if all our furniture and belongings settle and wait, like a breath held. It’s nearly four when I hear the scrape of his key in the lock. He’s opened his shirt collar and loosened his tie, and he’s had a few to drink, by the look of him.
‘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.