whenever his mobile forge rumbled through the village.
‘Why would Passion-fuelled Pete come to Toad’s funeral?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I haven’t worked out the logistics, Poppy.’ She passed a weary hand through her hair, looking tired. ‘Perhaps he had a horse-drawn hearse?’
‘What, like they do in the East End? Like the Kray brothers?’
‘It’s only a fantasy, for heaven’s sake.’
We sat companionably in silent contemplation for a moment, the only light shining through from the hall, where she’d belted up the stairs.
‘You’ll have it in the village church, I presume,’ she said at length. ‘I mean, the real one?’
‘I suppose so. Yes. Definitely.’
‘Everyone will come,’ she warned. ‘You know what they’re like round here. Any excuse.’
‘I know.’
‘Sunglasses?’
‘I think so.’
To hide the dry eyes, we both thought.
‘And actually,’ she said slowly, ‘it will be quite ghastly. You will need those glasses. Trust me, you’ll sob.’
‘Really?’ I looked at her anxiously, hoping for grief.
‘Really.’ She regarded me steadily. ‘A human life has been taken here, Poppy. A young man cut down in his prime. And that’s very sad. You’ll cry. But don’t you go feeling guilty about not feeling or weeping enough. You never wanted to marry that man, you just slid into it. You made a decent fist of your marriage because he was the father of your children, but let’s not get carried away here. A few years down the line, you wouldn’t have been with him.’
‘You don’t think so?’
‘I know so. You’d have flown, Poppy. This way, you’ll just fly a little sooner.’
As she said it, I felt some faint metaphorical itch between my shoulder blades where, one day, I might sprout wings. It was instantly followed by a lorry load of guilt tumbling on them like rubble, which had me cringing on the bed. We sat there side by side, Jennie hunched in her old camel coat and hugging her knees, me in my baggy Gap T-shirt, crouched under the duvet. Through the wall, we could hear Toad, or Dan as I preferred to call him, gently snoring. Not so gently, in fact; he was gaining momentum. She turned to me, appalled.
‘I didn’t know you could hear him!’
‘Only occasionally.’
‘I’ll put a pillow over his head!’
‘Do not. I don’t mind. Quite like it, actually. Sounds … masculine.’ And automatically I thought how Phil had been quite feminine. Fastidious. Clean. Two showers a day. Nail brushes. And slept like a mouse.
‘Well, at least there’s no danger of you hearing anything else,’ she remarked darkly.
I didn’t reply. Jennie’s increasing lack of interest in the physical side of her marriage could wait for another night. And anyway, this wasn’t entirely true. On the odd occasion I had employed ear plugs.
‘Go, Jennie,’ I said quietly, at length.
‘Sure?’
‘Sure.’
‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’
I nodded; gave her a weak smile. Then she hugged me and slipped away. I listened to her footsteps going down the stairs, the door closing behind her. I knew she would be back, first thing. Knew I was blessed with friends like this; knew that moving to this village was the best thing I’d ever done. That it had been a huge compensation for my marriage, and would now stand me in very good stead. And although my heart was heavy as I went to the loo and then crawled back to bed – I dreaded my next hurdle, which was telling Clemmie in the morning – as I lay down and shut my eyes, a part of me was already thinking about how I’d clear the medals from the mantle above the fire, take down the Tour de France pictures in the loo, sell the rowing machine on e-Bay. Not have to wake up to him doing press-ups by the bed in the morning. Not have to go downstairs and find a note in the kitchen headed ‘Poppy – Things to Do’. And part of me was also thinking: no longer, Poppy Shilling. No longer can you say nothing ever happens to you. Finally, something has gone on in your life.
