The Gin O'Clock Club Page 3

  Chapter 4

  Love is something we don’t even know we are searching for

  CLIVE, 82

  ‘I’ve got up to make her tea three times today, got down her mug, you know the one she likes, with the strange sheep that wears a tutu. I only remember after I’ve put the milk in. It just sits there. Such a waste,’ he said, wiping at one eye. He wasn’t really talking about tea.

  We were at the kitchen table, Grandad in his usual wooden chair with the armrests, me opposite in the chair I always sat in when I came over. My eyes had darted to Grandma’s chair with the worn red cushion, indents on its surface.

  ‘I know I’ve had some time to get used to the idea but it’s still a shock, although you know your grandmother, organised to the end. She’s left me a list.’

  I laughed in spite of myself, glad to see his mouth twitch into an almost-smile too.

  Grandma had loved a list. She told me she used to write them out on the chalkboard for when Grandad would get home on a weekend, after he’d been working all week. ‘Paint front door, fix chest of drawers, take out bins.’ One time the list had been so long Grandad had simply added, ‘Build the Pyramids’, turned and left for the pub.

  I realised I’d never been alone in the house with Grandad before. They had been such a duo, a pair. I stared round the kitchen, the tick of the clock on the wall louder, the buzz of the oven’s overhead fan, the gurgle of the boiler as the hot water kicked in. It seemed so much emptier. How could one missing person make this enormous difference?

  I’d come over as soon as they’d let me out of court, still dressed in my sweaty work clothes, my briefcase jam-packed with the brief for the next day and my head crammed with everything I needed to do next. My best friend Amy had sent me a lovely message after Luke had called her postponing the wedding plans we’d had that night. I was shaping up to be the world’s worst bridesmaid. The moment I saw Grandad, though, I forgot about everything else, knew the whole day had been putting off this moment. His face was rumpled, eyes deadened, eyebrows drawn together in a permanent frown.

  I reached a hand out and leant towards him. He smelt of ginger and coffee.

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be here earlier. I hate that you had to do all this on your own.’

  He picked up my hand and patted it. ‘I wasn’t on my own,’ Grandad said. ‘Luke was extremely helpful, and very kind.’

  So that’s where Luke had been. He’d probably never gone into the office. He would have known I didn’t want Grandad to be alone. I felt a surge of love for my warmhearted boyfriend.

  ‘And my golfing gang, Arjun, Geoffrey and Howard, were here, and Auntie Sue would have stayed longer if I’d asked her but the poor woman is as crushed as I am and it wouldn’t have been good for either of us.’

  Typical of Grandad to be thinking of others.

  He got up and flicked on the kettle. ‘Was it an interesting case?’

  ‘Grandad, I’m not going to tell you about some guy who smashed someone so hard in the thigh with a chair leg he fractured his femur – allegedly. No court talk at all. I’m going to order us a Chinese takeaway. We’re going to eat it and we’re going to talk about Grandma.’

  He nodded then and I was grateful to see the hint of relief cross his face. He seemed to have aged ten years in as many hours: his shoulders sagging, his feet shuffling as if he didn’t have the energy to lift them off the floor any more.

  The Chinese arrived and I pretended not to notice Grandad picking around the food. Every now and again a sound from the house next door would make us both look up, as if we were expecting Grandma to emerge in the doorway, to cross the room and sit in her chair. She’d offer us cocoa that we’d both politely refuse (Grandma could burn most things) and things would just be . . . normal.

  She didn’t appear, of course, and it still seemed a shock. She’d been seriously ill for a long while now, Grandad insisting on nursing her in the last few months. But even though she’d grown frailer, with longer pauses as she sought to catch her breath, grimacing at the rattle in her chest, she still had the same spirit and the same mind. She could still smash us both in a cryptic crossword or a game of backgammon. It seemed impossible that she wasn’t here. I felt a shiver run through me as I realised Grandad was now living on his own. For the first time in forty-four years, it was just him.

  We talked about her then, Grandad telling me stories I’d heard before made all the more poignant because she wasn’t here now. The time she’d been pulled over by the police after singing opera in her car at a set of traffic lights (they believed she was screaming from some kind of abdominal pain); the time she’d insisted on making jam and had ended up in the hospital with third-degree burns on her hand; the time she toppled over the fence into next door’s garden after spying up a ladder because she thought her friend’s husband was having an affair (it was a female plumber fixing the sink in their en suite).

  Our laughter filled the room. At one point I was clutching my side, both of us on the edge of hysteria, before tears leaked down my cheeks, my sobs stoppered by a handkerchief proffered by grandad. Grandad and Grandma’s house had been my home since I was seventeen. We still had Sunday lunches there, Luke and Grandad sneaking off to watch football as Grandma and I cleared up in the kitchen, listening to musical theatre soundtracks. Grandma loved to sing and whatever she lacked in pitch she more than made up for in enthusiasm.

  I felt an ache in my stomach then for the woman I loved so much. She had held my hand when I didn’t get the pupillage I’d so desperately wanted; when I’d heard Luke had injured himself skiing in Verbier and wasn’t sure what was happening, how bad it was; when I missed my mum after failing my A-level English mock and needed a hug and realised she was 12,000 miles away. She had taught me how to laugh at myself, how to embrace show tunes, how to grow a herb box and how to be the woman I aspired to be.

  And now what?

  Looking at Grandad, his plate of uneaten food, which he’d barely noticed, I worried about the future. It wasn’t that Grandad couldn’t look after himself – he’d been doing that and more these last few months – it was the fact that overnight he had lost his best friend in the world.

  How would he manage? And what could I do to help?

  I thought then of the last few months in my job, which seemed to have become increasingly pressured the more work I was sent: the scurrying on to trains, off trains, into courthouses; the late nights staring at briefs, watching CCTV footage, wanting to impress the other barristers in my chambers. Trying to squeeze in friends, spend time with Luke, keep up with current affairs, Skype my parents, help round the flat, keep myself looking professional and groomed. Even thinking about the long list of things I tried to juggle took my breath away a little, and it was then that I would have turned to Grandma, who always made me feel a lot calmer and more capable.

  My eyes flicked towards the clock next to the dresser and I moved to throw away the plastic containers and wipe down the table. I knew I would have to stay up late to ensure I was prepared for court tomorrow. There was so much more to say, though, and practical things to discuss too: we hadn’t even talked about the arrangements. I wavered, palms flat on the surface of the table as Grandad told me to leave it.

  ‘You’ll need to get off now,’ he said, false cheer in his voice.

  I closed my eyes, feeling my body almost physically split in two. I wanted to send one half of me home, to stay up late, read the documents I needed to read and collapse into bed next to a sleeping Luke. The other half would stay here, help Grandad, ensure he was all right.

  I removed his plate, landing a kiss on his forehead. ‘Not quite yet.’

  I did leave, Grandad practically shooing me out of the door. I took an almost empty overland train back to Clapham, trying to concentrate on the court document in my hand but unable to focus, just picturing Grandad brushing his teeth alone in the bathroom. Why hadn’t I thought of removing Grandma’s toothbrush? I bit my lip and rested my head back, the train
shuddering beneath me, the smell of brake fluid in the air.

  Luke was waiting up for me, enfolding me in the most enormous bear hug as I pushed through the door of our flat. It was almost a shock to feel his solid body pressed against me, his arms firm around me, the taste of peppermint as he kissed me. I felt some of the tension I’d been carrying back from the station drain away as I looked up into his face, his eyebrows drawn together in a worried line.

  ‘How was your grandad? How are you?’

  Perhaps sensing my overwhelming tiredness he ushered me through to our bedroom, steering me to the side of the bed. ‘Sorry, sorry, stupid questions. You’re shit, your grandad is shit and the whole thing is just shit.’ He raked a hand through his hair and looked down at me perched on the edge of our mattress. ‘Shall I make you a decaf coffee? Do you want a glass of water?’

  His eager attentiveness lifted my mouth and I realised all I really wanted was to lie down in the bed I was sitting on and get him to lie with me, hold me close and tell me it would all be OK. I also knew I should thank him for going over to Grandad’s.

  I didn’t do any of that, though. I felt the weight of the briefcase I was still clutching and looked up at Luke. ‘I need to read some things for tomorrow. I’ve got to set the alarm a little earlier, too – the trains to Aylesbury aren’t great.’

  Luke didn’t conceal his surprise. ‘Do you really have to work tomorrow? Can a colleague not take over?’

  I was shaking my head before his questions had even finished, bristling already at the look on his face. ‘You know I can’t, Luke. I’ve told you before it doesn’t work like that, and the client needs me.’

  ‘Your grandad needs you too. I’m sure if you rang chambers and explained—’

  I didn’t let him finish. All the emotion of the day, the train journey back, images of my grandad flashing into my mind as the wheels turned, made my next words come out cold and sharp. ‘Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think I want to leave him on his own now? God, Luke, you can be so insensitive. You just don’t understand. You don’t have a job like mine.’

  On any other day this would be enough to provoke a fully fledged row. It was a line I often levelled at him when I wanted him to rise. It was stupid: I did respect his job, I did understand what I had signed up for and I did understand that he worked hard too. In this moment, however, I didn’t care. I just wanted to lash out, could feel my veins bubbling with it, every muscle tense.

  His face closed down. He looked at his feet and breathed out slowly. ‘I’m sorry, Lottie. That’s not what I meant, or rather, look’– he met my eyes again – ‘it’s not a good day to start this. I hated seeing your Grandad so sad earlier and I know how hideous today must have been for you.’ He lifted me to my feet and held me again. I could feel the tears threatening, a sob catching in my throat.

  I pushed him away, two hands on his chest. ‘I better work.’

  He opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. He nodded at me. ‘You sleep in here tonight, you can work on the bed. I know you like to spread out.’ He nudged me once, his eyes teasing.

  ‘I . . . ’ He was giving me exactly what I had asked for. Space, time to work. Why was I now wanting him to realise I needed him to stay? ‘Thanks.’

  He picked up the cashmere throw from the bottom of our bed and gave me a last kiss. ‘Don’t stay up too late,’ he said, injecting a little brightness in his voice.

  ‘I won’t,’ I whispered, watching him move across the room, gently closing the door behind him.

  I sat down on the edge of the bed again and felt tears dripping from my face into my lap. I felt utterly sad and alone, with only myself to blame.

  Darling Cora,

  How can I be making plans for your funeral?

  You’ve left a list, of course you’ve left a list, and your list cracked my heart open a little wider.

  The day after you died was a blur of activity, then stretches of silence, punctuated with tea-making, whispers, the door opening and closing.

  The list had been in an envelope wallet, along with the funeral director’s details, your will and other relevant documents. It had been on your bedside table, your fountain pen resting nearby. When had you finished it? The thought made my eyes blink rapidly, stemming the tears that had yet to fall.

  Lottie came with me to the funeral parlour. It was good of her. We weren’t used to spending time on our own, I realised as she drove me there, apologising for the sudden boom of Radio 1, fumbling with coins for the parking meter when we stopped at a red light. I wasn’t any use. All the words I should have been saying to reassure her stuck as ever somewhere inside. You had always been the one to settle things, to make things right. I felt awkward and bumbling as I tried to give her the 50p she was looking for.

  ‘How long do you think we’ll be in there? I’ll put in two hours’ worth. I can always pop back out,’ she said, glancing in the rear view, biting her lip.

  ‘Yes, good idea.’

  ‘God, I hate driving in London . . . ’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is it that one?’ She pointed to a building across the street, a dove grey facade, signage all in italic scroll.

  ‘Yes.’

  We walked into the funeral parlour in silence, discreet lights encased in brackets on the wall, soft pink curtains pulled back to reveal a door behind the counter. On one side of the room a choice of urns in different shapes and colours on pedestals, framed quotes on the walls, a picture of footprints in the sand, low classical music piped from somewhere. A man with a too-flamboyant moustache emerged from the back room.

  ‘Mr Campbell.’ He walked towards us, his hand outstretched.

  I took it.

  ‘Good to see you again,’ I said, remembering that first morning, the men who had arrived to remove your body. I hadn’t wanted to see any of them again, didn’t want to think about that moment, then realised your body was here somewhere being prepared, that you were in this building. The thought made my head spin and I tried to focus on the present. ‘This is Lottie, my granddaughter.’

  Lottie was staring at the urns and it took a moment before the sound of her name sank in. She started a fraction before moving to shake the man’s hand. In this soft light she looked less wan, less thin.

  I pulled the pieces of paper from the envelope wallet I’d been clutching as we were directed to two soft leather chairs at a side table.

  ‘Shall we? Can I get either of you a tea or a coffee?’

  We both refused in low voices, a sombre mood settling over us. Simon should be here with me, not Lottie; it was such a lot to ask of her, she was only young.

  Your list was thorough, decisions taken out of our hands. Short readings selected, brief, eloquent: you.

  We were both grateful for your direction. The list meant you were in control, removing the need for us to second-guess, to worry it was something you wouldn’t want. I realised Lottie was as lost as I was and I wanted to reach out and hold her hand, reassure her, thank her for being there with me. My hands stayed frozen on my thighs.

  A coffee ring had almost obscured your last song choice but the funeral director had been able to decipher it.

  ‘What do you think?’ I’d asked Lottie, pushing the sheet across to her.

  ‘It’s what she wanted, at least.’

  The funeral director had bowed his head.

  She dropped me back at the house, didn’t come inside, said she had work to do but that she’d call. I knew she was on the verge of tears and I wavered, wondering if I needed to force her out of the car, frog-march her into the house. My own energy levels were depleted, though, and I wouldn’t know what to say or do. I thanked her for the lift, tapped on her window as she left. She wound it down and I told her a brake light was out. Nodding thanks, she drove away.

  The night before the funeral I couldn’t sleep. The house has been strange without you in it. I slept on my side of the bed, scrunched up far too close to the edge as if you were still starf
ished by my side. I miss the feel of your foot nudging me inch by inch, causing me to grumble, reminding me you were there. I haven’t slept well since you’ve died, and yet I’m dreading a night when I do.

  Did I regret saying I’d meet people there? The house was empty and silent that morning as I stared at myself in your full-length mirror, at the ill-fitting suit that had been dusted down for too many weddings and funerals. Why hadn’t I bought something new for today?

  I’d wanted to stay in the car park of the crematorium. You would have been in the passenger seat, pressing your lips together as you fussed in the small rectangular mirror overhead, chiding me, reminding me who so-and-so was married to, and remember X had divorced Y a while ago so I mustn’t put my foot in it. I glanced across at the empty seat, still unused to the silence, the space, the fact you were simply no longer there. And now I was about to get up and walk inside without you.

  The funeral hearse was parked outside and I couldn’t help but drag my eyes across to it, the oak polished and bright, the wreath we had selected woven with the flowers you so loved. You were in that box, in this car park. I froze in the seat, hand on the lock, watching people drift inside. I saw Geoffrey fussing over Arjun’s tie before they disappeared inside, a woman I couldn’t place following in their wake.

  Moving quickly across the tarmac, skirting puddles, my shoes tight, I managed to make it inside and up the aisle, eyes down, not yet ready to talk. I shuffled into the front pew, Lottie and Luke already there at the other end, Luke’s hand on Lottie’s lower back making small circular motions. Your sister Sue stepped across the aisle to say hello, her eyes, the same shade of blue as yours, red-rimmed.

  Clasping my arm, she asked, ‘All ready?’