‘I’m so sorry to hear that. He was a lovely, lovely man.’
‘Did you love him?’ I ask.
Julie gives me a sharp look. I’ve gone so far off plan, but in this moment, it’s something I really want to know.
‘Love him? Heavens, no. Whatever made you think that? My John was the only one for me.’
I think back over what Arthur said that day. That he thought Joan had had a thing for him, and that he thought she knew Dot a bit. If he was wrong about one, he could easily have been wrong about the other, too.
‘Just something he said,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
Julie pokes me sharply in the ribs and I realise I haven’t addressed the matter in hand.
‘I’ve been looking for you,’ I say.
‘For me?’
‘Yes, I, well, I’m looking for someone, for a friend, and I wondered whether you might be able to help.’
Julie cuts in. ‘I’ll tell you what. Shall we all go for a coffee and talk about this a bit more?’
Joan smiles. ‘That would be lovely.’
We find a café nearby, the sort with red and white checked tablecloths. A bit old-fashioned, but I suppose we are, too. Julie goes off to queue for two lattes and a pot of tea and I hope fleetingly that she’ll bring over some cake. She usually does. Joan and I head to a table in the window, well away from anyone else.
‘So who is it you’re looking for?’ Joan asks, once we’re settled.
She’s got her back to the window and I’m facing her, so behind her there are swarms of people hurrying past. It makes me think about the futility of this search. There are so many people, even in a town like Overbury. But I found Joan, didn’t I? And we found Dot’s brother, not that he’s replied to Julie’s Facebook message. I can’t lose hope completely, because if I do, what will I have left?
‘Dot,’ I say. ‘Dot Brightmore. Do you remember her?’
‘Oh yes,’ she says. ‘The two of you were joined at the hip. I’m surprised you lost touch. John and I went to her wedding a couple of years after she left Broughton, and then we exchanged Christmas cards for many years, but it dropped off.’
‘So you’re not in touch with her now?’ I ask, thinking that she might at least have a fairly recent address, from the sounds of things.
‘Mabel, I’m so sorry to tell you this, but I heard Dot died a couple of years ago.’
Died. Dot died. It’s hard to put the words together, even though I realise I’ve been half expecting them this whole time.
‘Oh,’ she says, seeing my reaction. ‘This is awful. And so soon after you losing Arthur. I really am so sorry to be the one to tell you.’
Julie’s arrived with a tray and she puts it down gently. She’s heard what Joan’s saying and she looks as distraught as I feel.
‘Gone?’ she asks, to confirm.
‘Gone,’ I say.
‘Oh, Mabel, I’m so sorry.’
And it is there, in that café in Overbury, in front of Julie and Joan Garnett, that I finally come undone. That I break apart. Because the death of the person you spent your whole life with is one thing, but the death of the person you didn’t? Sometimes, that’s the real tragedy.
I am aware of Julie holding me, rocking me back and forth, and I know that a member of staff comes over and asks if she can help, if she can do anything, but Julie shakes her head and pulls me closer.
Why did I wait until now to do this, when I wanted to know how and where Dot was every day of my life? I keep going back to Arthur, but he didn’t stop me, not really. I knew he didn’t want me to do it, but it’s not as if he put his foot down. He wouldn’t have stood in my way, I don’t think. It was cowardice. It was not knowing what she’d say when I found her. It was thinking I didn’t mean as much to her as she did to me, and not knowing what I would do with that information. It was foolish. Because here I am now, an old woman, a widow, and what have I got to show for my life? A marriage that was long and contained love but no passion, an old friendship that I lost and some new friendships that mean a great deal. Is it enough? If I don’t have long left, have I done and said enough?
When I’ve managed to pull myself together a bit, I see that Joan looks horrified at my outburst. She’s sipping at her latte, looking around like she’s desperate to escape.
‘What was it?’ I ask.
‘What was what?’
‘How did she die?’
‘Oh, cancer, I think.’
Cancer. So ordinary. So mundane. So unlike Dot.
‘Do you know whether there’s a place I could go, to visit her? A gravestone, perhaps?’
She shakes her head. ‘She was living in Portsmouth, on her own, at the end. That’s all I know.’
‘Had she lost her husband?’
‘What? Oh, no, that didn’t last. They split up when their boys were still young. She was on her own for a long time.’
She finishes her coffee and it’s clear that she wants to get away. She pulls a notebook from her bag and scribbles down her telephone number for me.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says. ‘Awful to be the bearer of bad news. I just… I didn’t realise you’d be quite so upset. I’d better go. But here’s my number. You know, for if you ever want to talk.’
And she shuffles out.
Julie and I don’t say anything for a time. We don’t need to. She knows how I feel, and her disappointment is palpable, too. When she does speak, it’s to say this.
‘I was so hoping I would get to meet the wonderful Dot Brightmore.’
In my quiet moments, I’ve entertained a couple of fantasies. Sitting alone with Dot, going over old times and memories, filling each other in on what we’ve missed of the other’s life. And introducing Dot to Julie and Patricia, Kirsty and Erin, these women who have brought so much joy and colour to my life since I lost Arthur. But it’s too late.
‘Let’s go home,’ I say, draining my cup.
Julie nods and takes the tray back up to the counter, gets the untouched cake put in a box for us to take home, and we walk to the bus stop in silence.
Back at my house, Julie asks if I’d like her to come inside. She’s done more than the two hours she’s paid to do for me today already, but I know she doesn’t count that as work, know she’d happily come in and spend another two hours doing bits and pieces to help me. But I want to be alone, so I shake my head, tell her that I’ll see her tomorrow.
‘You know where I am, if you need me,’ she says. ‘I don’t like to think of you, sad and on your own.'
I almost say that I don’t like to think of her like that either, but I don’t.
‘Julie,’ I say, as she’s walking away. I’ve been meaning to bring this up for days, and I only seem to be able to manage it when she’s not looking at me.
But of course, she turns. ‘Yes, Mabel?’
‘It’s been three months, since you first came here. It’s time for me to manage on my own.’
‘Is that what you want?’
It isn’t a case of wanting, it’s a case of needing to. I don’t have the money to keep paying her.