and close the door behind them.
‘You’ve heard then?’ Monica pursued, after they’d gone. ‘Yes, it’s been a long day … No, don’t come round tonight. It wouldn’t be right … Tomorrow – I’ll phone you tomorrow … I know you do, but you shouldn’t be saying it to me now. Night night.’
She went upstairs, although it was still too early to try to sleep. The bed hadn’t been made, since Jim had been lifted professionally from amongst the tangled sheets that she would definitely have to change. Funny how she hadn’t thought of that before now. How could she possibly sleep on sheets that had housed a dead body? And yet, they held the last impression of Jim. His last traces. Once washed and put away, there’d be nothing left of his final hours.
Slowly, she lay down in Jim’s place, on his side of the bed, and tried to capture a sense of him. His smell was faintly there, the pillow indented by his head. Something slightly abrasive rubbed her cheek, and she sat up to look. There was a dried stain, greenish-brown, a few inches long, on the pillow. It must have dribbled from Jim’s dead mouth; she rubbed her cheek fiercely, disgustedly, at the thought. Then she picked up the pillow and quickly stripped the case from it, trying not to look at the stain. But as shethrew it into the washing basket, it stared up at her. There were flecks of something brownish sticking to the cotton, amongst the dried crust. Had he actually been sick, she wondered?
Taking a deep breath, she went back and pulled the sheets off the bed. No place for sentiment now. Clean sheets; blankets tucked well in. If she was to sleep at all tonight, she would need to be comfortable. After all, tomorrow would be a busy day.
CHAPTER TWO
Wednesday
In the morning, Monica woke to a disturbing noise. Downstairs, shut firmly in the kitchen, the dog was squeaking, as if it wanted to go out. Before she could gather her wits, she was stumbling downstairs to see to it. She had no real feelings of affection towards Cassie; soon, she would have to make a decision about the animal’s future. For now, she just wished it would keep quiet and out of her way.
‘What’s the matter?’ she demanded, blearily searching out the little white body. The dog was under the table, shivering, a pool of vomit a little way away. ‘Oh, no!’ She opened the back door and scooted the dog out with one bare foot. ‘Go out, will you!’ she said.
Averting her face, she fetched the mop bucket, and clumsily removed the offending sick. Darn dog , she thought. Whatever next? She shook out a double-page of last week’s local paper and trod it down delicately, to soak up any residual dampness. By the time she’d got dressed, it could be thrown away.
By half past nine, she had pulled herself together enough to go along to the Registrar, via the doctor’s surgery, where she collected Dr Lloyd’s certificate from Susie on reception. Susie smiled at her, meeting her eye full on, and said, ‘I am so sorry, Mrs Lapsford, at your sad loss.’ She had been on a one-day training course about patient relations, and had been advised to confront death and terminal illness calmly but honestly. Avoidance helps no one , they said.
Monica was surprised. She hadn’t expected any recognition or acknowledgement, and the near-intimacy of Susie’s words felt warm and consoling. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That’s really nice of you.’ The girl struck her as pale; the smile contained pain, which surely couldn’t all be for Monica’s plight.
‘Doctor Lloyd asked me to say that he’d be very happy to talk to you if you feel you need him,’ Susie continued. ‘You know – if you have trouble sleeping, or anything. It must havebeen an awful shock for you.’ She paused and swallowed. ‘And he wondered whether it’s to be a cremation?’
‘Yes, it was a shock,’ Monica agreed. ‘And yes, it will be a cremation. Tell him I’ll be fine once all this business is over
‘You’ve heard then?’ Monica pursued, after they’d gone. ‘Yes, it’s been a long day … No, don’t come round tonight. It wouldn’t be right … Tomorrow – I’ll phone you tomorrow … I know you do, but you shouldn’t be saying it to me now. Night night.’
She went upstairs, although it was still too early to try to sleep. The bed hadn’t been made, since Jim had been lifted professionally from amongst the tangled sheets that she would definitely have to change. Funny how she hadn’t thought of that before now. How could she possibly sleep on sheets that had housed a dead body? And yet, they held the last impression of Jim. His last traces. Once washed and put away, there’d be nothing left of his final hours.
Slowly, she lay down in Jim’s place, on his side of the bed, and tried to capture a sense of him. His smell was faintly there, the pillow indented by his head. Something slightly abrasive rubbed her cheek, and she sat up to look. There was a dried stain, greenish-brown, a few inches long, on the pillow. It must have dribbled from Jim’s dead mouth; she rubbed her cheek fiercely, disgustedly, at the thought. Then she picked up the pillow and quickly stripped the case from it, trying not to look at the stain. But as shethrew it into the washing basket, it stared up at her. There were flecks of something brownish sticking to the cotton, amongst the dried crust. Had he actually been sick, she wondered?
Taking a deep breath, she went back and pulled the sheets off the bed. No place for sentiment now. Clean sheets; blankets tucked well in. If she was to sleep at all tonight, she would need to be comfortable. After all, tomorrow would be a busy day.
CHAPTER TWO
Wednesday
In the morning, Monica woke to a disturbing noise. Downstairs, shut firmly in the kitchen, the dog was squeaking, as if it wanted to go out. Before she could gather her wits, she was stumbling downstairs to see to it. She had no real feelings of affection towards Cassie; soon, she would have to make a decision about the animal’s future. For now, she just wished it would keep quiet and out of her way.
‘What’s the matter?’ she demanded, blearily searching out the little white body. The dog was under the table, shivering, a pool of vomit a little way away. ‘Oh, no!’ She opened the back door and scooted the dog out with one bare foot. ‘Go out, will you!’ she said.
Averting her face, she fetched the mop bucket, and clumsily removed the offending sick. Darn dog , she thought. Whatever next? She shook out a double-page of last week’s local paper and trod it down delicately, to soak up any residual dampness. By the time she’d got dressed, it could be thrown away.
By half past nine, she had pulled herself together enough to go along to the Registrar, via the doctor’s surgery, where she collected Dr Lloyd’s certificate from Susie on reception. Susie smiled at her, meeting her eye full on, and said, ‘I am so sorry, Mrs Lapsford, at your sad loss.’ She had been on a one-day training course about patient relations, and had been advised to confront death and terminal illness calmly but honestly. Avoidance helps no one , they said.
Monica was surprised. She hadn’t expected any recognition or acknowledgement, and the near-intimacy of Susie’s words felt warm and consoling. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That’s really nice of you.’ The girl struck her as pale; the smile contained pain, which surely couldn’t all be for Monica’s plight.
‘Doctor Lloyd asked me to say that he’d be very happy to talk to you if you feel you need him,’ Susie continued. ‘You know – if you have trouble sleeping, or anything. It must havebeen an awful shock for you.’ She paused and swallowed. ‘And he wondered whether it’s to be a cremation?’
‘Yes, it was a shock,’ Monica agreed. ‘And yes, it will be a cremation. Tell him I’ll be fine once all this business is over
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