‘I might,’ said Rita, sensing this might be her opportunity to get Billy to leave.
‘Perhaps I’ll leave you to it then,’ he’d said. ‘How about the dogs one Saturday? You’ll like that.’
‘Yes, okay. I’ll let you know.’
Rita had been profoundly relieved when Billy opened the door.
‘Let me know when you feel better babe. I’ll come back with the Merlot. Not the same bottle, mind you,’ he’d laughed. ‘That’ll be well gone.’
‘Yes, thank you,’ Rita had said, desperate for him to leave.
The door had closed behind him and Rita had leant against it, tears pricking her eyelids.
Chapter Twenty-One
Henry looked around Rita’s neat little room and wondered what on earth he was doing there. The world outside was occluded by Rita’s net curtains. Imogen had always wanted net curtains, but he couldn’t remember why they never got them. Not that anybody looked in their windows, which had been Imogen’s concern. Everyone had their own lives to live and usually hurried past their house. People rushed everywhere these days, thought Henry; to the station, to the office, to the airport, to the supermarket, rushing towards their final day as if they couldn’t somehow wait. They’d be rushing out to buy Christmas presents soon. Henry realised that he’d been doing the same. He’d been rushing to the bus, rushing to the office, rushing to the tennis club and then rushing home to his wife. Filling in time, he thought. We’re all filling in time. Five sleeps to go. Four sleeps to go. One sleep before it’s all over. Why doesn’t anyone realise? Life was so short. Why hadn’t he realised? So many things he said he would do. He always thought there would be plenty of time. When will we realise that we don’t know how much time we have. When this is sorted, I’m going to live for the day, he decided.
He glanced at the clock by Rita’s bed. It was nearly five-thirty. He ought to be making his way home. What if Imogen were waiting for him with the sausages burning in the oven? Imogen always timed dinner to be ready as soon as Henry walked in the door. She knew how much Henry hated eating late. It would play terrible havoc with his dyspepsia and then he would have a restless night. Henry sighed in irritation. This whole thing was becoming tedious. He didn’t have his indigestion tablets. What if Rita’s food upset his stomach, which it was likely to do. Imogen always cooked them bland meals. It was healthier. Henry didn’t believe in too much salt or too much sugar. Moderation in all things, he told himself. You can’t go wrong then. He wondered if Rita was a good cook. She didn’t seem the type to have lots of takeaways and she was nice and slim so probably didn’t eat too much sugar either. He’d phone Imogen if only he had her number. He pulled his mobile from his pocket. Perhaps everything was normal again and her number would be there. But it wasn’t and things were exactly the same and Henry slumped into Rita’s sofa, its softness cushioning him.
‘I think I ought to phone Imogen,’ he said. ‘But I don’t know her number.’
‘Oh,’ said Rita.
‘I could try home,’ he said, pulling the phone from his pocket again. Only to find the battery was low.
‘You can use my phone,’ offered Rita reluctantly.
‘I don’t suppose she’s at home anyway,’ he said.
‘No,’ agreed Rita.
‘Especially today,’ he nodded.
‘After the funeral,’ agreed Rita, bowing her head, as though in respect.
‘Besides she wouldn’t be able to hear me.’
‘No,’ said Rita.
There was a moment of silence.
‘Who is Joyce Grenfell?’ Rita asked.
Henry’s face brightened.
‘She was a great talent. Very funny. I have a book about her. You can borrow it.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ said Rita, pleased. ‘I’d like that.’
‘It was nice of them to read one of her pieces during the service.’
‘I’ll get the toast on,’ said Rita, jumping up.
She doesn’t want to talk about my funeral, thought Henry.
‘I’ll warm the plates,’ she said, crashing the crockery as she pulled it out of the cupboard.
Henry nodded gratefully. If there was one thing he hated it was food on cold plates. His mind drifted to the sausages and he licked his lips. Imogen made the best sausage and onion. He shouldn’t eat onions really, but he could never resist when Imogen made them so crispy. Besides, you couldn’t have sausages without onion could you? But he wasn’t having sausage and onion and he wasn’t at home and he hadn’t given in the Lester report. What was the world coming to?
