Chapter 1
Honestly, Paula really thought by the time she was sixty-one, she’d have learned a thing or two about having a normal conversation. But – standing here in her outdated, beige-coloured kitchen – she’s realising now that she doesn’t have a clue. How does one even begin to handle something like this?
She’s on the phone – the landline – and staring at a suspicious patch on the ceiling in the corner. Is it a new leak coming through from the upstairs bathroom, or is it a shadow? She can’t tell.
‘. . . we know it must be a shock . . .’ the man is saying down the line and his voice sounds awfully far away. ‘. . . it’s been registered with the local authorities here, and we’ll arrange for the paperwork, including a death certificate to be sent to you, of course . . .’
She wants to turn on the overhead light so she can have a proper look at that corner – the lamp isn’t any use at all – but the phone cord doesn’t stretch to the switch by the door.
Tilly was probably right all those years ago, when she said they should get a cordless phone, but they were so expensive at the time.
These days, of course, her daughter thinks it’s absurd she and John even have a landline at all.
But look here, isn’t she using it right now?
‘. . . repatriation of the body is expensive, I’m afraid, but of course we’ll make arrangements, if you’d like. It’s possible his travel insurance may cover it.’ The man pauses. ‘Do you happen to know if he had any?’
Paula feels a familiar stab of fear at the mention of money. She shakes her head, then remembers he can’t see her. ‘I don’t know,’ she says simply.
‘Sorry to ask this . . .’ The man sounds awkward, and it is somehow more endearing in his light Austrian accent.
‘But do you know if John had a . . . er, preference about his . . . remains? It is sometimes a more straightforward option to have the body – um, your loved one – cremated at a local crematorium and then transported back.’
This is, at last, something Paula can help with. She knows the answer to this one because John was always terribly clear. ‘He did want to be cremated, yes!’ she relays eagerly. ‘He told me he didn’t like the idea of his body being eaten by worms. He said that several times.’
There is a shuffling noise at the other end of the line and Paula wonders if she’s said the wrong thing. Do people whose husbands have just died not talk about the body being eaten by worms? Has she messed up again?
‘. . . and of course, there will be more documents for you . . .’ The man has resumed talking, and Paula returns her gaze to the ceiling stain – or shadow, who knows?
‘. . . and I’ll get that over to you as soon as possible, so you can apply for a Consular Death Registration in England.
You can also contact the British Consulate if you would prefer a UK death certificate . . .’
‘Gosh,’ says Paula, because the idea of contacting the British Consulate sounds so grand. So unlike anything she’s ever had to do before. But then, this has never happened before. Obviously.
‘. . . and again, Mrs Sheldon, our most sincere condolences, as well as our deepest apologies it took us a few days to identify him and locate you . . .’
‘Don’t worry!’ she says nicely, because it makes her uncomfortable when people apologise.
They say their goodbyes and hang up. Paula stares at the ceiling. Then back down at the phone in her hand.
Her husband of more than thirty years is dead. That’s what the nice man with the nice accent said. John was in an accident; his car went off the road; it would’ve been very quick for him.
For John, she means, not for the nice man.
Paula wonders if she should’ve known something had happened.
You hear about wives who somehow, intuitively knew something terrible had befallen their loved ones.
Paula read something recently on Facebook about a woman who’d fainted at precisely 3.
46 p.m., later discovering her husband had collapsed at his desk and died from a coronary at exactly that time.
Should she have known?
It had been a few days since Paula had heard from her husband.
But that wasn’t particularly unusual when he went to one of these work conferences abroad.
The signal was often unreliable; he was busy with colleagues; he liked his space.
She hadn’t been worried at all, never mind sensing anything amiss.
It’s true, she had tried to call him several times in the last few days, but only because of that thing she’d found out on Monday. The big, mad, incomprehensible thing she urgently needed to tell him about. But she hadn’t been too concerned when he hadn’t returned her missed calls.
Paula turns now in her kitchen to explain to John what’s happened, and then remembers that she can’t tell John that John is dead. Because he’s dead.
Instead, she backs up, across the kitchen, letting the phone handset clatter noisily onto the faded orange floor tiles.
She finds cupboards at her back and leans there for a few minutes, feeling the cool surfaces through her thin jumper.
It’s the cupboard with all the plates in it.
Not all the plates, of course. The nice crockery is in the cupboard above the oven.
John’s always too worried they’ll get broken, so they never use them.
He was always too worried. He can’t be worried anymore. Because he’s dead.
Paula considers sitting down on the floor, but she’s not sure she’d be able to get up. Does it matter though? If she can’t get up again? Why would she ever need to get up again?
She slides down, finding the frigid cold tiles beneath her, and then stares back up at that stain on the ceiling.
She’d meant to turn the light on for a better look.
But now the switch seems too far away and she was right before: standing up is going to be a complex negotiation.
The stain – or shadow – will have to stay where it is. Unresolved.
‘Mum?’ It’s her son, Seb, squinting at her from the open back door.
He looks so very young. Thirty is still young, she thinks, though she didn’t feel it at the time. She had two babies at his age, whereas he’s yet to learn how to use the washing machine by himself. Seb rubs his eyes and Paula notes how red they are, how tired he looks.
Perhaps he’s been crying about his father?
Except he doesn’t know yet, does he? She’s going to have to tell him.
And Tilly. She wonders how she’ll find the words and looks at the phone on the floor, wondering if 1471 still tells you the last number to ring.
Maybe she can get the nice man with the nice accent back on the line to explain it all to her children.
‘What are you doing on the floor?’ he asks, looking a little alarmed. ‘Did you get hold of Dad yet? Did you tell him the big news?’
‘No,’ Paula says softly.
It really is such bad timing that John’s dead. Just when the biggest thing to ever happen to either of them – to anyone she’s ever met! – has occurred. Just when she and John have won twenty-one million pounds on the lottery.
How is she going to manage this on her own?
And how in the world is she going to get up off the floor?