Olive’s funeral was on the following Monday.

Rory had offered to go with Sheila, although the chances of being allowed time off school to attend the funeral of her mother’s neighbour were slim, but Sheila had told her that she would be fine with Barb and the others.

Rory didn’t like to think about her mum having to go to that crematorium – the same one they’d used for Frank over fifteen years ago. She could still close her eyes and remember the neutral walls, neutral carpet, neutral chairs. The room had been full – her dad had had lots of friends – but she had only been aware of her mum beside her and the coffin in front of her. She shuddered.

On Wednesday, she popped in to see Sheila after school to see how she was. As always, they went straight to the kitchen so that Sheila could make tea.

Rory leaned against the door frame. There wasn’t enough room for them both in Sheila’s tiny kitchen. Particularly when she was in ‘keep yourself busy’ mode. ‘So, the funeral went well?’

The ancient kettle was still getting itself in the mood for boiling, so Sheila busied herself with a dishcloth, wiping the sparkling surfaces. ‘It was a lovely service. There were lots of people there and everyone sang.’

Rory smiled. Her mum had been so pleased with the strong voices at Dad’s funeral. It was funny, the small things which brought you comfort. ‘Did you speak to George?’

Sheila didn’t look up, but shook her head and kept wiping. ‘There were so many people there who wanted to talk to him, I just didn’t get the chance. You know what funerals are like; long-lost relatives come out of the woodwork.’

Rory remembered. There had been people at her dad’s funeral that she had never seen before and was not likely to again. They’d known their way around a free bar, though.

Sheila found a stubborn mark on the hob on which to focus her attention. ‘The worst thing is, I know how much George must be suffering. If anyone knows what those first few weeks are like, it’s me. After the funeral, people drift away. They “leave you to your grief” like it’s an important visitor and you don’t want to be disturbed. But you do. Because when you are alone, that’s when the gaping hole opens and you don’t know how you will ever get out.’

She stopped wiping and leaned forwards. Her shoulders started to shake.

‘Oh, Mum.’ Rory put her arms around Sheila as she cried. They stayed that way for a few minutes until the kettle clicked off.

---

Once they had their tea, they decamped to the small sitting room. It was always tidy and clean in here, but today everything had been polished to within an inch of its life. The rug looked as if every strand had been individually brushed and then the whole thing straightened using a set square.

Rory pushed a couple of the copious scatter cushions out of the way and sat down. ‘So, is George staying with his daughter?’

Sheila picked up the displaced cushions and smoothed them down before putting them on another chair. ‘He was, but he was at home yesterday. He came into the lounge in the evening when we were playing cards to thank everyone for the flowers that we sent to the funeral. Everyone got up to speak to him, even Sid, and he shook their hands and kissed the ladies on the cheek.’

Rory put her mug down on a coaster. These had also had the right-angle treatment. ‘That’s good. Did you get a chance to talk to him?’

Sheila picked up one of the cushions again and started to fiddle with the fringing. ‘I couldn’t. I couldn’t move and he didn’t even look at me. It must have been obvious to everyone and now they must definitely think that something happened between us.’

Rory reached over and took the cushion out of her mum’s hand before she shredded it. ‘I’m sure they don’t, Mum. They probably didn’t even notice.’ And even if they had noticed, why would they think something was going on between them? George had lost his wife and Sheila had lost her friend – of course they would be quiet around each other. Almost everyone in Seymour House had been widowed: Olive’s death must be bringing back memories for many of them.

In the absence of the cushion, Sheila had started to twist the edge of the throw in her fingers. ‘But why are we being like this with each other? Absolutely nothing has happened between us. The only time we have even touched each other was that night we danced to the old music and Olive was there with us. It was her idea that we danced.’

Rory reached over and put her hand on Sheila’s. ‘I know, Mum. You’ve got nothing to feel guilty about; either of you. Like you said, these early days are so hard. He probably doesn’t even realise that you haven’t spoken. It’s a bit of a bubble, isn’t it?’

Sheila sighed. ‘I know. You’re right.’ She patted Rory’s hand and reached for her tea. ‘Well, Karen is still calling me, so that is a comfort.’

Rory felt for Karen. You were never ready to lose a parent. ‘How is she coping with it all?’

‘She is really struggling, poor love. Now her mum has gone, she has been hit with a flood of old memories about her. Memories from a long time ago. How she was before her illness took hold. She thinks it’s because she hadn’t allowed herself to think all those things whilst her mum was alive because it was too painful. She just focused on the mum who was in front of her. The mum who was vague and forgetful. Not the mum who had taught her to read and bake and kept every certificate she’d ever been awarded.’

Rory gulped her tea to push down the large lump in her throat. Grief was so unpredictable. It was the unguarded moments that got you. You weren’t even thinking about the person and then something – a song, a scent – came into your consciousness and then – bam! It was like being winded. ‘I know how she feels.’

‘Of course you do. For us, it was a complete shock. For Karen, it’s complicated. With Olive’s Alzheimer’s, she hasn’t only just lost her mum; she’s been losing her in pieces for the last eight years.’

The two of them sat there for a few moments, just sipping their tea. Lost in their own memories, recent and long ago.

Sheila took a deep breath and put down her mug. ‘That’s enough of that for now. How’s my Belle?’

Rory had been surprised how quickly Belle had moved on from Alfie. If anything, she seemed relieved rather than upset by the end of their relationship. ‘She’s great, actually. She seems to have completely bounced back. Did she tell you about the speech?’

Sheila nodded and smiled for the first time. ‘She brought it round to show me. Did you help her to write it?

Belle had to give a speech on a subject of her choice as practise for her extended project and Rory had suggested she use it to get her revenge on The Nobhead. ‘I might have given her the idea.’

Sheila chuckled. ‘It was very funny. So clever, how she compared consent to what you’d do if you were offered an ice cream. What was it? Oh yes! “You can’t tell someone that they have to eat the ice cream just because at some point it’s going to melt.” Such a clever girl.’

Rory grinned. ‘Her teacher was really pleased with her. They spent the rest of the lesson discussing the #MeToo movement. Even Alfie’s best mate wasn’t speaking to him by the end of it.’

She’d been so proud of Belle that day. She and Fiona had come home from college full of it. Giggling and laughing, like the old days. It had been lovely to see. Good friends were so important.

‘Has she told you about this damn party she’s organising?’

‘Yes, I’ve heard all about it. She wants me to come, but I’ll have to see, love. I’m a bit up and down at the moment.’

‘Of course, see how you feel on the day. I wish I didn’t have to go.’

Sheila patted her hand. ‘Don’t be like that. You’ve done a lot of work on that house; it’ll be nice to show it off.’

‘Belle is inviting everyone she can think of. Goodness knows how we’re going to fit them all in.’

‘I assume John Prince is coming? It would be unfair not to invite him when he’s done so much of it.’

Rory knew full well that Belle had already spoken to Sheila about this. ‘I think she’s invited him, but we haven’t had his reply.’ They hadn’t heard from him at all. Rory had paid his bill online – which had seemed almost ridiculously cheap – and had received an automatic email response from his accounting software thanking her for her payment. Nothing since.

Sheila’s voice was gentle when she asked, ‘Maybe he would be more likely to come if you invited him yourself?’

This had occurred to Rory, but Belle had already invited him. If she also contacted him, wouldn’t that seem a little keen? A little desperate?

‘I don’t know, Mum. There was a time when I hoped there could be something there. But neither of us ever made a move. It’s a bit late now.’

‘Couldn’t you just talk to him? What have you got to lose?’

Rory didn’t want to think about this. ‘I could say the same thing to you about George.’

Sheila looked at her intently for a few moments, then picked up their empty mugs. ‘Come on, let’s have another tea.’

Rory followed her out to the kitchen. ‘Speaking of friends, how’s Barb?’

After clicking the kettle switch, Sheila crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. ‘Very well indeed, actually. She wasn’t as close to Olive as I was, but it shook her up; a death can do funny things to a person. She decided to move in with her bloke and left Seymour House two days later. She’d been waiting to see if he would ask her, but after Olive she just came out with it and asked him. I have to say I am glad. What is the point of waiting around for things to happen? You have to make them happen.’

Rory put her head on her mum’s shoulder. Sometimes a death made you want to hide yourself away and never come out again. Sometimes it had the opposite effect: it made you want to live. ‘Maybe you and I need to take a little bit of that advice, Mum.’

Sheila put her arm around Rory’s shoulders and kissed the top of head. ‘Do you know what, my lovely girl? I think you might be right.’