Friends Forever! (7 page)

Nan gives her best derisive snort. “Ha! As if I was going to buy a brand new hat to stand in a drafty council office,” she tuts. “But Dizzy, she said I was just jealous because none of my kids had managed to get wed. The cheek of her! So I didn't go.”

Nan looks at the photo again, then puts it away. “We never spoke to each other ever again,” she says sadly.

“You fell out over a hat?” I splutter.

“A hat,” repeats Nan. “I wouldn't phone Dizzy, Dizzy wouldn't phone me. Then George and Marie moved to Devon and she went with them.”

Nan's eyes become a little glassy. “Anyway, she's gone
up there
now,” she says, pouring herself another very small Glenmorangie.

By “up there,” I'm surmising Dizzy's gone somewhere a little farther than Devon. “That's a shame, Nan,” I say.

“I know it is,” she agrees. “Life's too short for silly arguments. That's why you've got to get your girls together again. Now! Plan yourselves an adventure! A holiday? You're sixteen years old! Oooh, if I was sixteen again, I'd—”

“I can't!” I protest. “Mum's making me get a waitressing job at the Wacky Warehouse.”

“Eh?” splutters Nan. “Whatever for?”

“She says I can't freeload off her all summer,” I say. “She says I need to know the value of money.”

At this moment, Nan begins to howl with laughter. In fact, she laughs so much she has to hold on to the oak table. Her face has dissolved into a million wrinkles.

“Hoo hoo! My Magda actually said that?” guffaws Nan. “Oooh, I've heard the lot now! Did she care to tell you what she was doing at sixteen?”

“Mmm . . . ,” I ponder. “Something about being up with the lark doing housework?”

Nan nearly explodes with mirth. “Ha ha ha!” she howls. “She was never up before midday! She never saw the sun! It was like living with a bat.”

“Are you sure?” I say, feeling slightly disoriented.

“Yes, I'm sure!” says Nan. “She drove me absolutely doolally! Her and Susan Fitzpatrick—out at nightclubs until all hours! The stupid clothes! The endless procession of long-haired lout boyfriends! Then, Magda meets your dad one night at one of them ravey parties, drops out of catering college and takes off to Tenerife to work in a nightclub with him. That girl turned my hair white!”

“Pardon?” I say incredulously. “My mother dropped out of college? Mum told me she finished college before she went to Tenerife.”

“Veronica,” chuckles Nan. “Your mother has a very selective memory.”

I will never listen to anything Magda Ripperton says, ever again.

 

 

It's 8 P.M. I already promised Mum I'd come home tonight for babysitting duties tomorrow morning, so I have to get going.

“Well, that works out nicely,” Nan says as we walk down the hallway. “My program begins at 9 P.M.
Autopsy Squad—
do you watch it? It's the best thing on the box.”

“I saw the episode with the kidney snatcher,” I wince.

“Wasn't that great?” beams Nan, passing me my coat. She's also shoved something into my hand. An envelope.

“What's this?” I say, raising an eyebrow.

“Money,” she winks. “For the summer.”

“Nan . . . you don't have to . . . ,” I begin.

“Oh, shush,” she smiles. “Go and have a good time. Buy something daft with it!”

Nan opens the door. It's a balmy June night. Daddy longlegs are crawling around the lamp outside. I give her a big hug, trying not to crush her.

“I'll call you soon,” I say. “I'll give you an update on events.”

“Good girl!” smiles Nan. “You tell your mum I love her. I'll call her tomorrow after Miriam's put my curlers in.”

“Sure thing,” I say, walking down the garden path. As I reach the small gate, I turn around for another wave.

“Cheerio, sweetheart!” Nan shouts, her walking stick supporting her tiny frame. “Oh, and you remember what I said, eh? Save the LBD! Have courage—it's not too late!”

“I hear you!” I chuckle, walking away up Dewers Drive in the twilight clutching my warm tinfoil parcel of scones. “Love you, Nan. See you soon.”

 

 

“Ronnie,” Dad says. “Ronnie. Sweetheart? Are you awake?”

“Gnnngnn . . . Dad,” I moan, opening one eye.

Dad's sitting in the armchair in my bedroom. It's 11 A.M. Visiting Nan must have bought me some major brownie points—they never let me sleep this late.

“I promise I'm getting up now,” I say. “Will you tell Mum I'll do Seth's lunch feed?”

There's a long silence. I open my eyes and sit up. Dad's sitting very quietly, peering at me. He stands up and opens the curtains.

“Er, Ronnie babe?” he says. “Sit up. I need to talk to you.”

Oh God, he's going to start doing my head in about summer jobs again. “Can it not wait?” I say huffily.

“Not really, darling,” he says.

Something about Dad's tone makes me slightly uneasy.

“What's up?” I say, propping myself upright.

Dad looks at me. He looks lost for words. “Erm, Ronnie, it's . . . your nan,” he finally says.

“Oh, Dad!” I say, beginning to laugh. “I should have said last night. She's not gone mad at all. You'll never believe this . . . she's only got herself one of those police scanners from dodgy Tony down the road! What a woman!”

Dad looks at me blankly. He sits down on the side of my bed. “Ronnie, darling, your nan died last night.”

I feel like somebody has punched me in the mouth.

“But . . . but . . . no,” I splutter. “She . . . she was . . . I was there . . . there last night!”

“I know you were, petal,” says Dad calmly.

“And she was fine!” I say. “She was . . . she was totally fine. She baked scones!”

My head's spinning. I think I might be sick.

“And I . . . I was telling her about Claude and Fleur!” I say. “She . . . she was telling me what to do!”

“That sounds like Leticia,” says Dad sadly. He reaches out, placing his big rough hands over mine. Thick tears are streaming down my cheeks.

“Dad . . . Dad, this makes no sense!” I sob. “Are you sure? Maybe there's been a mistake.”

Dad reaches forward and cuddles me into his chest. “No, Ron,” he says. “Miriam found her this morning. She was lying in bed. Miriam says she just looked like she was asleep. Your mum's gone there now to meet the undertakers.”

“But . . . she was okay last night, Dad,” I sob uselessly. “She was fine.”

“She was old, Ronnie,” says Dad, smoothing my hair with his hand, blotting my tears into his shirt. “She was just really, really old.”

My dad and Tony, Miriam's son, and some other Little Chipping men help carry Nan's coffin. It's tiny. Not exactly £900 worth of stained golden oak, which is the price Sneddon and Sons Funeral Directors charged.

Nan would have been livid at that price.

“Wrap me in newspaper and put me in the rubbish!” That's what she used to tell us. “I don't want any fuss!”

In the end, Nan's funeral is a bit “fussy,” but I think she would have approved. Nan loved a good funeral. She liked the singing and the flowers and the after-party where everyone gossips and eats pork pies. Mum once accused Nan of scouring the
Local Daily Mercury
's obituary section for fresh deaths, because she had more fun at wakes than at bridge club.

Mum and Nan were always taking the mickey out of each other.

I don't cry at all during the service, although I nearly do when we sing “Amazing Grace,” Nan's favorite hymn. It just doesn't seem right to blubber when Mum's face is so stiff and dignified. I'm determined to cope just for her.

However, when we arrive at the Little Chipping Hotel for Nan's wake, I begin to feel totally hideous. All of Nan's gang from her Tuesday Club are gathered: Tilly, Philly, Kitty and Sissy, all with their fluffy candy-floss hair, chunky handbags and walking aids. In the function room, a long, grand oak table is laden with sandwiches and sausage rolls. Old-fashioned china cake-stands heave with scones, macaroons and cream éclairs, and two huge steaming teapots are perched ceremoniously in the center of the table, waiting for service.

In the corner, Aunty Susan and Miriam sit on either side of Mum on a sofa, holding her hands, while she gazes into the middle of nowhere. Meanwhile, Dad wanders about, dispensing extra chairs to the elderly and announcing, “Crikey, what a turnout!” to random passersby.

The whole thing is beyond surreal.

I stand for at least half an hour in the center of the room, making small talk with the cotton-wool heads about my exams, waiting patiently for something to happen.

Something. Anything. I'm not sure what. It just feels like something isn't right. Then, eventually, as the guests tuck into the sandwiches and begin complimenting the scones, it finally hits me:

I'm waiting for Nan to show up.

At some weird level, I've been expecting her to hobble through the door and begin piling a plate with jam tarts and potted-meat sandwiches—which is totally ridiculous, as I'm never going to see her again.

I have to get out of that room.

In a flurry of limbs, I rush out a side door, narrowly missing a woman carrying a huge teapot, stumbling into the rather majestic hallway where at least the air is cooler. To my right is a grand sweeping staircase where, halfway up, I see a young man with his head in his hands. It's Tony, Miriam's son.

“Tony?” I say, climbing the stairs to where he sits. “Are you okay?”

Tony looks up at me. His hands are marked with bad tattoos. His dark brown eyes are full of tears.

“Oh . . . don't mind me, Ronnie . . . I'm just being soft,” Tony smiles, wiping his wet hands over his shaved head. “It's just your nan . . . she was just . . . y'know, a really nice woman. She never had a go at me about stuff.”

“Yeah, Tony,” I say, sitting down on the step beside him. “I know.”

And then I start to cry too.

Eventually, Dad finds me and decides to drive me home.

“Oh dear, Ron,” smiles Dad as we turn into the Fantastic Voyage's parking lot. “We may have intruders. Shall we call the police?”

“Eh?” I grunt. I've not uttered a syllable during the entire drive home.

Dad points across at our beer garden where two girls are playing on the man-sized chess game: one blonde, another with dark bunches and spectacles.

I can't believe my eyes.

Claude and Fleur!

“Oh my God,” I gasp, jumping out of the car. Dad smiles and says nothing.

As I approach, Fleur is waving Claude's white bishop above her head with victorious glee while Claude glares back at her.

“I thought you said you played chess, you numpty!” Fleur shouts smugly. “Were you getting it mixed up with Hungry Hippos?”

“I can play chess!” retorts Claude. “You just take so flipping long to make your moves I lose the will to live. It's like playing with a sloth!”

“Oh,
whatever
,” tuts Fleur, adding the bishop to her vast pile of vanquished pieces. “A sloth who's whooping your ass!”

The girls spot me and stop bickering.

“Ronnie!” Fleur shouts, rushing over to me with her arms open. “How's it going, babe?”

“Hey,” says Claude, running over and joining the hug. “We heard about your nan. Your dad called our mothers. We can't believe it. We're so sorry, Ronnie.”

“Thanks,” I say quietly, feeling all juddery again. I'm so relieved to see them both.

“Today has been just totally horrible,” I sniff, taking a hankie out and blowing my nose. “Just totally surreal.”

Claude releases me from her hug, wrapping her arm around my waist. “Look, Ronnie,” she says, “I just want to say how sorry I am that I've not been there for you over the last few days. I feel terrible.”

“Me too,” sighs Fleur, biting her lip. “I'd have come round on Saturday if you'd called. You didn't even text, though. You must have thought I wouldn't care after, well, y'know, everything that's happened. I feel awful.”

I dab my eyes and shrug. “I didn't think that . . . I just . . . ,” I begin, but my voice trails off.

This has all got so stupid and complicated.

“Ronnie, we do care,” says Claude firmly, taking charge of the awkward silence. “Things have just got messy between me and Fleur, that's all. No one's angry at you.”

“Totally,” nods Fleur.

I look at my two friends, standing there with tearful expressions.

“Look, if there's anything we can do to make you and your mum feel better,” says Claude, “just give us a shout, we'll be there.”

“Yeah! Anything at all,” nods Fleur. “Like babysitting, or making cups of tea or running errands or, well, anything. I know what it's like when grans die. Everybody has to pull together.”

“Thanks, girls,” I whisper. “To be honest, I feel a whole lot better just seeing you both and, well, knowing we're all fine again.”

Claude and Fleur look at each other, then look away.

There's another awkward silence.

“What?” I say.

“Well,” says Fleur sheepishly, “depends what you mean by ‘fine.' ”

Claude crosses her arms and throws Fleur a withering look. “Leave it, Fleur,” she mutters.