Poppy nods, and leans down to place the box in the ground. It tilts as she does it, but luckily no goldfish corpses slosh out and scare them all. Patch is watching them from the hole he’s now sitting in, and Andrea silently says her own prayer: please do not let that stinky little dog gallop over here and run off with the dead fish’s body.
They stand back respectfully, and place their hands together in the prayer position they’ve been taught at school. Andrea’s not at all sure she believes in God, or the afterlife, but it’s certainly useful where small children are concerned. Much more comforting than the alternative.
‘Dear Jesus,’ says Rose, bowing her head so her brown curls swing around her chubby face, ‘please take this wonderful fish, Faceman, into heaven. He was a good fish and we all loved him. Please give him a nice bowl to swim in, and lots of other fish to play with, and let him know that we willneverforget him. Amen.’
It is a lovely prayer, simple and heartfelt and innocent, and Andrea feels tears filling her eyes. They are so precious, these two beauties. These two grubby angels who have enriched her life beyond belief. In moments like these, she can forget all her worries: the bills, her lacklustre acting career, the sheer exhaustion of being a single mum in a world built for couples. She can ignore it all, and focus on what matters – her Rosehip and her Popcorn. Best girls in the world.
Poppy looks up at her big sister, and offers a small, tremulous smile.
‘It’ll be all right, Pop,’ says Rose, reaching out and holding her hand. ‘Heaven is a beautiful and perfect place, and Faceman will be happy there.’
Poppy frowns, and Andrea recognises her Thinking Face. It’s the look that usually goes before a very tricky question – like Where Do Babies Come From? (said very loudly in the park after seeing a lady with a pram), or Why Is That Man Bald? (said very loudly on the bus behind the town’s answer to Kojak), or her particular favourite, Why Don’t I Have A Dad? (said very loudly at Parents’ Evening).
‘Mummy,’ she says, with a voice far firmer than her tearful expression, ‘how does Faceman get to heaven? If he’s buried in a box in a garden? And is there a different part of heaven for everything – you know, like a Sheep Heaven and a People Heaven and a Goldfish Heaven, all in separate bits? Because sheep would need grass, and fish would need water, and people would need the pub …’
Again, Andrea bites down on her lip to stop herself from laughing. Thepub? That’s what she thinks people heaven would be like? She’s clearly been on one too many trips to the Farmer’s Arms …
‘Well it’s all a bit of a mystery, my love,’ Andrea replies. ‘Nobody has ever come back from heaven to tell us about it – because they’re just too happy there. Personally I think that angels will come down and fly Faceman up with them tonight, while we’re asleep.’
As she says this, she sees Rose’s face also screw up into a thoughtful frown. Oh no, she thinks. They’re too old for such an outrageous fib. They don’t believe me, and now they’ll want to dig up the bloody box again tomorrow and check if he’s gone. That’s my night sorted – a glass of red wine and an impromptu goldfish exhumation.
‘But do they always fly to heaven?’ asks Rose, her gaze flicking back to the house. ‘Because B. A. Baracus hates to fly, you know that, don’t you?’
It’s actually an easier question than she’d anticipated, which is a relief. This whole thing is a minefield.
‘Well, when B. A.’s time has come, we’ll … flush him down the toilet? And then he can swim to heaven.’
‘Goldfish heaven?’ asks Poppy again, obviously not letting go of her idea of a compartmentalised afterlife.
‘Exactly. Now,’ says Andrea decisively, keen to avoid any more of the Junior Tag Team Spanish Inquisition. ‘Shall we play the music?’
Both girls nod, and their mum presses the button on the cassette player.The A-Teamtheme music blares out, echoing around the garden and drowning out the birdsong and the sound of a lawnmower in the distance and the faint rumble of traffic heading into the village. They all stand to attention, singing along and doing the ‘duh-duh-duh-duh’ noises at the right places. It’s their favourite TV show, and is a fittingly rousing end to Faceman’s short, soggy life.
With the final ritual completed, Andrea reaches out for both their hands, hoping that they’ll be happy and not too confused by all of this mortality nonsense. The three of them walk together towards the cottage, winding their way through the maze of potted lavender and garden gnomes and buzzing bees.
Just as they’re about to go back inside and hopefully settle down for their usual Saturday morning cartoons, Poppy pulls on Andrea’s hand, and comes to a halt.
‘Mum,’ she says, in a tone that means business. ‘What will happen to us whenyougo to heaven?’
Andrea kneels down on the cracked crazy paving, and takes both girls into her arms. She feels small hands and skinny limbs wrap around her, and squeezes them as hard as she possibly can without popping their ribs. Like she never, ever wants to let them go.
‘Oh, darling – don’t worry about that. There’s a very long time before your mummy goes to heaven.’
She pulls back, still on her knees so she is at eye level with the children, keeping one hand on each of their shoulders. She looks from face to face, and sees the way that Poppy’s hand has already crept into Rose’s; sees their strength and their wonder and their potential. How did she ever create two such perfect creatures?
‘And even when I do,’ she adds, giving them both a reassuring smile, ‘you’ll always have each other.’
Chapter 2
The Present Day
‘Iknow you’re aiming for Scarlett-O’Hara-on-her-deathbed, darling, but with those earrings, you’re landing closer to Pat Butcher leaving the Queen Vic in a black cab.’
Lewis is perched on the end of the bed, trying to ignore the machines and the wires and the dreaded drip stand. He’s feeling a little queasy because of the smell. That unmistakable hospital smell: that hideous combination of death and disinfectant.
He can hear the nurses outside, chatting away about their night out at the weekend, and has a deeply uncivilised urge to run through the door and clang their heads together. He realises it’s unfair – God knows, if anybody is entitled to a life-affirming booze-up, it’s people who care for the dying. But still. A little decorum wouldn’t go amiss.
Andrea manages to kick him, though it barely registers – she is very weak, and his behind is very well padded. It’s like a gnat biting a T. Rex. He pats her foot beneath the green blanket, and gives her a smile.
