Bridget puts a large flat box on the table. “There’s a nice pizza for your dinner and I bought a couple of rolls for lunch.” She brings out two ciabatta rolls wrapped in cling film from her handbag. “That deli is doing all sorts now,” she says. “Pastries and macaroons. I sat at one of the tables outside and had a lovely cappuccino with a milky swan on top. You should go sometime, get yourself out of here.” She looks around. “I don’t expect you’ve been eating, have you?”
“I’m not hungry.” Jeanie stands the guitar against the wall. It’s clear that Bridget is staying.
“That’s what your heart says, but the body needs sustenance. Energy.” Bridget takes two plates from the dresser and wipes her hand quickly across them. If she notices that there are fewer than usual, she doesn’t comment. She unwraps the food and lifts the top of each roll. “Pâté and rocket or brie and cranberries?” She sits at the table. “I thought you might need a bit of help sorting through Dot’s clothes. Not a nice job, but these things have got to be done, haven’t they? Mind you, I can’t see Stu or Nath going through mine when I’m gone. They’ll probably build a bonfire in the garden and dump everything on it. Me included.”
Jeanie thinks of Dot under the ground beside the apple tree. She draws a plate towards her, suddenly starving. “Maybe Stu will go first,” she says, her mouth full.
“No, it’ll be me,” Bridget says. “Worn out by my husband and son. I was forty when I had Nath, you know—”
“Have you seen him recently?”
“Nathan? He’s living with a mate in Newbury. He comes over when he fancies a home-cooked meal or when he wants to borrow some money. God knows what he’s up to. No good, I imagine.” She laughs, and Jeanie is no longer hungry. She thinks about telling Bridget that Nathan came to the cottage a little over a week ago and that she might see him tomorrow, but she says nothing. If she doesn’t say it, it might not happen. When Bridget has finished eating, they go up the left staircase to the bedroom. Bridget leads, clinging on to the handrail and panting, with Maude jostling between their legs to get there first, then curling up in her place on the landing when she decides nothing interesting is going to happen.
“The bulb must have gone.” Bridget flicks the bedroom light switch. “In here?” she says, opening the wardrobe. Jeanie doesn’t want to be doing this now. She’s hoping to go to Saffron’s house later, start the mowing to see if the volume of the engine will drown out her thoughts.
“Hers are on the right,” Jeanie says, reaching out but not touching. When she came upstairs to look for something to dress her mother’s body in, Jeanie hadn’t been able to resist holding one of Dot’s dresses to her face to inhale the scent of her. Mostly, though, the smell had been of the washing flakes they used. Every Monday, Dot and Jeanie used to drag out the twin-tub from the old dairy, stuffing the dirty clothes in one side and slopping them into the spinner on the other. The machine was so violent that if they went away for a few minutes, when they returned it would have limped across the room as far as the electric lead would let it as though trying to escape. Jeanie hasn’t done any proper washing since Dot died, only rinsing out her and Julius’s underwear in the kitchen sink and hanging it on the line in the yard. “Mum’s jumpers and other things are in her chest of drawers,” Jeanie says.
“There’ll be clothes you’ll want to keep, I’m sure.” Bridget takes down a hanger with a skirt and holds it up. “Your mum wore this to the village fete last year.”
“I don’t remember,” Jeanie says. She didn’t go. She never goes to village events. Too many people, too much noise and excitement. “I don’t want any of it. It can all go. The nearest charity shop.” She has an urge to clear out everything. If the cottage were empty she wouldn’t have to decide what to pack.
“Surely, something?”
“It has to go, today.” Jeanie feels the same surge of energy she had when she got the boxes out from the dairy. With two hands she lifts off half a dozen full hangers from her mother’s side of the wardrobe and chucks them on the bed. A flowered skirt falls to the floor and Bridget picks it up. “This is lovely. Isn’t it from some fancy shop?” Bridget is looking inside the waistband at the label. Jeanie hasn’t seen the skirt before, and it does look expensive.
“I shouldn’t think so,” she says. “Can you take the lot of it in your car?” Jeanie has never understood the fuss people—women—make about hair and make-up and clothes. Clothes are things to keep you warm or dry. She goes to the chest of drawers. “All this too?” She yanks at a drawer so that one side comes out first and won’t come out further or go back in, and she hangs her head, pausing, gathering herself without Bridget seeing.
“What about this winter coat?” Bridget says. “This might fit you. You’re a bit smaller than your mum, though.”
“The coat too,” Jeanie replies, without turning.
“It’s good quality.”
When Jeanie looks, Bridget is rubbing the wool between her fingers. Jeanie huffs and with what she
