“I really am so sorry about your mother. Such a wonderful woman.”
There is a pause and Jeanie knows he is expecting her to leave but they both continue to stand, waiting. Finally, she clenches her belly muscles and says quickly, “Is there anything due, any money for the last delivery?”
“Oh,” Max says, and she sees that he’s embarrassed too. They don’t look at each other. “No, well. Dot didn’t say? I gave her a little in advance, just to help her out, you know. I’ve kept track of it, all above board.” He lights up his screen again which Jeanie sees has some contraption attached to the back to allow him to hold it with one hand. “I can show you if you like?”
“It’s fine,” she says, backing out, past the jars of fancy piccalilli, the mustards, the bags of pasta sealed with cardboard and a single rivet. “I’ll be back on Thursday or Friday with whatever’s ready.” She’s through the open door, Max following.
“But I’ll see you later,” he says, and she is already pushing the bike and trailer across the road. “Up at the cottage.” She has no idea what he’s on about.
In the village shop Jeanie concentrates on keeping the prices steady in her head, making them add up. They are low on lots of basics: toilet paper, flour, soap, bread, pasta, tea. Her periods haven’t stopped yet and she needs tampons. The butter has gone off and there’s no shampoo or dog food. The oil for the lamps is nearly finished, although she has found two boxes of candles under the sink. She hooks a wire basket over her arm and cruises the three narrow aisles. She has five pounds and fifty-five pence in her purse. A bottle of basic cooking oil is more expensive than a tub of margarine, although the latter will do for both frying and sandwiches, but how long will it last without a fridge, and it’s only worth buying if she can also afford a loaf of bread. The tins of dog food are beyond her budget so she decides on a container of Bisto gravy granules—she can make some up and mix them with cooked vegetables and an egg for Maude. She and Julius can eat this dinner too. She recognizes the Bisto packaging, but there are two sorts: red and orange. She runs her finger under the word on the orange container, sounding out the letters at the start: ch. Chicken. The beef flavour is likely to upset Maude’s stomach less, but the chicken variety seems to have extra included, and is cheaper. Jeanie puts the chicken Bisto in her basket. She can’t decide between a packet of four toilet rolls and a bottle of washing-up liquid which would also do for soap, clothes washing, and maybe even shampoo. There is a stack of old newspapers in the dairy they can use for toilet paper if they must; she selects the washing-up liquid. A loaf of bread and a single pint of milk, and she’s reached her limit. With longing, she walks past the aisle stocked with bars of chocolate, trying not to breathe in. At the till she prays she has added up the price of her five items correctly. The total comes to five pounds and thirty-five pence.
Beside the door on her way out she sees a large box with a sign above it, full of random produce: dried pasta, tins of beans, a box of tampons on top. She walks past this too.
11
Bridget and Stu arrive first at the cottage with two large carrier bags of food and a crate of beer. Julius tries not to think about how much Stu will charge for the bottles of IPA. He has changed into a clean shirt and an old jacket which had belonged to his father but sees brown crusts of soil under his fingernails. Bridget hugs him and when she lets him go, she has tears in her eyes.
“How was it?” she says. “I wish you’d let me come.” She flaps her hand at herself, wipes her cheeks, and gives half a laugh.
“It was fine,” he says, and when she seems to want more, he adds, “Nice.”
“A cremation?”
“No,” he says, and then thinking that she’ll ask where Dot is buried, immediately says, “Yes.” He pulls the corners of his mouth down. “Sorry, it’s been a long day.”
“I expect you don’t know if you’re coming or going.” She puts the carriers on the table. “I know, I know, you didn’t want me to bring much, but . . .” She shrugs and takes out a plate of sandwiches covered in cling film and unwraps them, as well as three large pork pies. “Where’s Jeanie?” Bridget slices the pies and puts the food out on the table. Stu has gone back to the van for more beer.
“She went to deliver some vegetables to Max,” Julius says.
Bridget stops in the middle of sliding a quiche lorraine out of its packet. “You didn’t tell her, did you?” He looks away. “Oh, Julius. She’s not going to be in the village for long, surely? She’s going to come back and find her house full of people.”
Did they have a wake for their father? Julius can’t remember, but as Bridget is laying out slices of buttered malt loaf he remembers Frank’s birthday cake: badly iced in pink by Jeanie. Julius had piped a blue Happy Birthday Dad in barely readable script on the top. The cake sat beside the sink in the scullery for more than three weeks after their father died. None of them ate it and none of them could throw it away. The icing hardened and crazed like the frozen puddles Julius liked to break with the heel of his shoe in winter. The cake grew a grey speckled rash and a sage-green moss sprouted from the cracks. Bridget took the cake away in the end while their mother had sat in a dull, unseeing silence at the
