Eddie did this once. At least, there was one incident I was aware of; there were probably other occasions too. But the time I’m thinking of, he stole two bottles of wine from the house to drink somewhere – probably at the bandstand – then denied it strenuously.You and Dad must’ve drunk it all!
Tonight, like accomplices in a robbery, Prish and Jamie hover on the pavement as I creep into my house. It’s not Eddie nicking booze this time. It’s me. As expected, Frank is out in the shed and Dad is already upstairs in his room. Or rather, the room that should rightly be Eddie’s, apparently. My son is upstairs too, presumably with headphones on. So I sneak through to the kitchen and lift out a bottle of sauvignon from the fridge. Then I open a cupboard and take all the leftover food from Dad’s party: the unopened crackers and crisps and biscuits. Sleepover food really. The kind of stuff I always got in for the kids.
How to let Frank know I won’t be back until morning without telling an outright lie? My eye is caught by the magnetic notepad that’s stuck to the fridge. CANCEL CITROLAX!! is written in huge capital letters on the front sheet. I peel it off, and then take off a fresh sheet and write:
Having a night with Prish and Jamie. Will be back early morning. Don’t worry! Will explain tomorrow. Love C xx.
Frank will think I’ve gone mad because I never stay out overnight. But he’ll assume we’re all staying at Prish’s. Where else would we be? Shrugging off a twang of unease, I leave the note on the worktop, and pack our night picnicinto a carrier bag. After padding through the hallway, I close the front door quietly behind me.
The three of us march along quickly, giddy with the realisation that what we’re doing is crazy, but we’re going to do it anyway. ‘There’s no CCTV, is there?’ Jamie asks as the library comes into view.
‘It hasn’t worked for years,’ I tell him. At the library’s main door now, I fish out my big bunch of keys. Heavy rain starts to fall suddenly.
‘Quick!’ Prish commands as I open the heavy door. We step in, pausing to register the still darkness, the orderliness of our workplace.Drip-drip-drip.The only sound is rain plopping into a bucket. Then Jamie clicks on a light and we spring into life, fetching mugs and utilising the meagre selection of mismatched plates in the kitchen for our snacks.
The children’s section is rearranged swiftly as we pull three primary-coloured beanbags close together, and place a low plastic table in the middle. Wine is sloshed into mugs, and on this summer’s night, the three of us have a little party. We drink and eat, and then put on music through the tinny speaker that the toddlers’ singing group uses. We even get up and dance, revelling in the naughtiness of our library lock-in. And we talk abouteverything:how Prish – a fifty-eight-year-old mother and grandmother – has decided to forget about meeting ‘the one’, and will instead enjoy meeting ‘the many!’ as she puts it. Jamie tells us how he plans to invite himself on a trip to Arran, next time Lewis’s parents are staying. ‘I’ll out Lewis to his mum and dad on the ferry,’ he announces.
‘Yes! What’s the worst that could happen?’ I ask, swigging from my mug.
He pulls a mock-horrified face. ‘He might throw himself overboard.’
‘Ortheymight?’ I suggest.
‘That’d be a result!’ He grins, then turns serious. ‘I think he’d dump me,’ Jamie adds. ‘But, y’know. Maybe that’s not the worst thing …’ He turns to me. ‘What d’you think?’
‘I think the worst thing we imagine often turns out to not be so bad after all.’
‘Oh, profound,’ he announces, and we laugh. But right now I believe it, because even though I’m going to be a granny soon, and have no idea what to do, or how to help – should I be knitting? I can’t even knit! – I’m with my friends and I’mhere.
When Mum was dying I sat at her bedside in the hospice and held her hand. Mostly she’d been sleeping. Her soft fair hair was neatly combed, her thin body very still in a cotton nightie patterned with forget-me-nots. Everything was closing down, yet there was a sense of peace and calm in her little room.
‘Carly?’ she said suddenly. Her voice was soft but still gave me a jolt.
‘Yes, Mum?’
‘You know where I’d like to be?’
Oh God, I thought – this is it. I thought I’d been coping, with Frank’s help. He was living with me, having left his life in Portugal, because I’d needed him. And Mum had been so terribly ill, fading away before my eyes. It would be kinder, I’d thought sometimes. Kinder for her to slipaway. But I didn’t think that now. She was my mum! She couldn’t die! How would I ever manage without her?
‘Where, Mum?’ I whispered.
Now I look at Prish and Jamie. ‘You know just before my mum died?’ I start, and Prish grabs my hand.
‘Oh, darling. Don’t be sad tonight!’
I shake my head quickly and smile. ‘I’m not. Really. But she said this thing, about where she’d like to be right at the end …’ My voice cracks and I take another sip of wine, tepid now in the mug.
‘Oh, Carly.’ Jamie squeezes my hand.
‘… I thought she’d say Heaven or something,’ I continue. ‘She wasn’t religious, but what else was she going to say?’ I pause and look at my friends.
‘Whatdidshe say?’ Jamie prompts me.
I smile. ‘She said John Lewis.’
‘John Lewis?’ Prish exclaims. ‘Why?’
‘Because she always reckoned nothing bad could ever happen in there.’
