Chapter 6
CLARK
As I walk Pearl back home, I think about the events of this afternoon.
Florence and I died back there and were given a second chance at life. This is madness. If I didn’t need to walk Pearl home, I would be heading to the pub as I could murder a pint.
The memory of waking up next to an unconscious Florence in that strange afterlife bedsit rushes back to haunt me.
I recall my frantic efforts to wake her and the panic that she might never wake up again.
Even though Florence is a constant source of irritation, frustration and anger for me, I wouldn’t want her to be seriously injured.
It took her ages to come round, which made me anxious and a little emotional. I will never admit this to her.
Pearl is quiet, which gives me valuable time to think.
What do I need to do to pass this test? I recall what Hilda and Iris said. Florence and I need to change something. Okay – so what is the something I need to change?
Pearl holds on to my arm as we cross the road, and I look at her.
It makes me recall what Hilda and Iris said before they explained the test. One of them said that Florence and I had been too busy arguing while people close to us had been asking for help.
A little burst of excitement rockets up my spine. This is a test about helping someone.
Our conversation from earlier in the café comes back to me.
Before I got distracted by Florence laughing with a male customer and the handbag thief, Pearl was telling me she needed to sell copies of Mary’s book and that Mary wanted her to track down her true love.
An idea unfolds in my mind. Maybe I could help Pearl with one of these?
The latter would require a lot of hard work, and as they were the same age, the mystery man would now be in his late seventies.
He might not even be alive. The thought of telling Pearl that her long-lost true love died years ago makes me feel uncomfortable.
I will opt for the easier option and help her sell copies of Mary’s self-published book. Boom!
‘I want to help you,’ I say as we turn onto our cul-de-sac.
She lifts her head and smiles. ‘With what?’
‘Selling Mary’s book.’
Her face lights up. ‘Really? That would make me very happy.’
I can sell a few books. That will be enough.
I don’t think I would need to make it a bestseller or anything.
That’s hard enough already for any author, and Pearl admitted that Mary quietly self-published her novel with little fanfare.
Still, if I’m going to sell some copies I’m going to have to put some work into it, and I don’t know where to start.
I think of Florence and her book reviewing hobby.
She’d know what to do, but I’m not asking her.
She would take over. No, I will sell a few books myself.
‘Do you have a physical copy?’
‘Mary’s brother dropped off two at my house. He’s not read it and has no intention of doing so either.’
I cast her a puzzled look. ‘Oh – why’s that?’
Pearl shrugs. ‘He’s always claimed Mary was weird. He has, though, promised to keep her book up on .’
‘Mary wasn’t weird.’
Pearl doesn’t answer me, which I think is because she will get upset.
‘Do I get people to buy it from then?’
‘Yes, Clark.’ We stop at my house so I can grab my spare keys for Pearl’s house. Once we have those, I let her inside, and she passes me a copy of Mary’s book – titled The Habit of Goodbye.
She taps the cover. ‘Would you do me a favour and read it first?’
‘Haven’t you read it?’
She shakes her head. ‘Any mention of Mary makes me upset. If you read it, you can tell me what it’s about.’
I hold the paperback, look down at its plain blue cover. ‘Do you think it’s a romance?’
Pearl chuckles. ‘Unlikely, but she was always full of surprises. You would help me a lot if you took the time to read it, though.’
There’s that word, ‘Help’, again. Maybe all I have to do is read Mary’s book? Perhaps that would be enough to pass the test?
‘Well, I’m going home now to dive in.’
She smiles and says goodbye.
As I turn on my heel to walk down her garden path, I spot Jack from across the road sitting on the kerb with his bike lying behind him.
I see Jack often when I run; he’s usually playing on his bike.
A few months ago, I twisted my ankle, and he came to sit beside me on the kerb.
I was trying my hardest not to cry as it was painful.
Jack talked about his father, telling me about a time he, too, twisted his ankle as a mountain rescue volunteer; apparently, he didn’t let it stop him from saving six hikers in a snowstorm.
That wasn’t what I needed to hear, but I sensed Jack was very proud of his father.
He cycled behind me as I hobbled home and made helpful comments like, ‘My dad didn’t complain as much as you either. ’
I haven’t seen any sign of a man in Jack’s life, so I assume he’s no longer around.
‘How’s it going, Jack?’ I ask, crouching down beside him.
He looks up and smiles. ‘Hello, Clark.’
Whenever I see Jack, he always reminds me of my younger self. I would always be hanging around the street on my bike. Jack also looks like a mini version of me, with chaotic brown hair and a cheeky smile. ‘When I was your age, I always loved playing out late in the summer.’
Jack shrugs. ‘I’m not playing out. Mum is in one of her moods again. I’m hoping she’s had a coffee and is in a better mood.’
‘Ah, my mum was always moody when I was a boy, too.’
Jack rolls his eyes. ‘Clark, I’m not a boy, I’m eleven.’
‘Sorry,’ I say with a smile.
‘Did your mum cry a lot?’ Jack is looking at me with sad eyes.
I need to lighten his mood. ‘My mother could have taken part in the Olympics if crying was a sport.’
Jack chuckles. ‘Funny.’
‘Your mum will be back to normal when you go back home.’
‘Do you think so?’
I smile and survey his bike. ‘I know so. How’s school?’
Jack started secondary school last year. I remember him telling me that it was cool and the canteen’s chips were better than the ones he had at primary school.
‘It’s okay. I don’t like maths. My teacher is a nightmare.’
I smile and picture one of my old teachers. ‘Jack, your teacher can’t be as bad as my maths teacher.’
Jack shakes his head. ‘My teacher is Mr Langley. He shouts a lot.’
‘My old teacher was called Mr Beaver. Everyone called him “Old Beaver”.’ Jack smiles, and I carry on.
‘He spent the entire lesson shouting about how much he hated children, parents and his fellow teachers. His grey hair resembled one of those satellite pictures of a cyclone when it’s heading for land.
’ My silly stories seem to be doing the trick, so I keep going until Jack stops me.
‘Mr Beaver looked ancient when I first started secondary school. Someone in class once asked him whether he remembered the dinosaurs.’
‘That’s funny.’
‘I’m going to let you in on a secret,’ I say.
Jack nods.
‘I started talking to him when I was in detention. We chatted about golf, football and the weather. When I finally left school, I liked the old man.’
Jack is casting me a horrified look. ‘You liked your maths teacher?’
I smile. ‘Teachers shout a lot, but underneath they’re just normal people like you and me. Go easy on Mr Langley.’
I let myself in and say hello to my cat, Mr White Socks.
If that well-known beer brand made cats, Mr White Socks would be one of them.
He’s such a cool chap with a striped silver body and white paws.
Mr White Socks is like me in many ways. He’s a flirt, loves his food, and one of his hobbies is to annoy Florence – the latest example of this is that he’s been doing his business in her garden, much to her great annoyance.
At her father’s funeral, Florence announced that she was going to start gardening to carry on her father’s love of vegetable growing.
Harry had green fingers, and he grew all sorts of delicious things.
He would often be seen in the café showing an interested customer a photo of his impressive tomato crop or giving advice on how to grow the best runner beans.
I have yet to see Florence’s home-grown vegetables but I have heard – many, many times – how much my little Mr White Socks is ruining her garden.
Florence’s mum, Yvonne, who I often see down the snooker hall, tells me Florence is still at the planning stage, three years on.
That’s the thing about Florence, I’ve learnt; she never actually commits to anything.
According to Yvonne, if Florence spent less time walking around her garden thinking and more time planting, she would have some vegetables by now.
I do offer to pick up my cat’s business but Florence insists on doing it herself and as such, she’s always leaving doggy bags of cat poo by my front door.
This makes me inevitably cross as there have been occasions when I’ve forgotten about the doggy bags, stepped onto one in bare feet, and groaned as it exploded all over my legs.
After telling Mr White Socks how great he is and filling up his food and water bowls, I settle myself on the sofa. It’s time to help Pearl and pass this test.
I read a few pages of the book but start to yawn. My eyelids feel heavy, and my body is starting to relax. It’s been quite a day, and I’m not surprised I’m exhausted.
My phone bleeps. Sitting up, I see that it’s my best mate, Bread. His nickname comes from his yellowish-white hair, which looks like a loaf rising in the oven. No matter how the barber cuts Bread’s hair, it always reverts to looking like he has a loaf stuck to his head.
‘Come to the pub. All the lads are here.’
I stare at Mary’s book. If I’m honest with myself, I am not going to read this tonight.
The prospect of a few beers with the boys is a bigger pull, especially after the day I have had.
I stare at the book, and an idea pings into my mind.
Mr White Socks is sitting on my coffee table and throwing me one of his judgy cat looks.
Waving the book at him, I point to it. ‘I will get the lads to buy a copy when I’m in the pub.
So I’ll be making some progress towards the test today. This will be part of how I help Pearl.’
Mr White Socks looks away, and I take out my phone. If I get the link to Mary’s book, I can force them all to buy a copy. As I grab my jacket, I pop the paperback into the inside pocket. ‘Once they’ve all bought a copy, I might have a celebratory pint,’ I say as I head out.
It’s a short walk to the pub. All my friends are sitting in their usual corner. They all raise their pints as I walk over to say hello.
Bread gets me a cider and places it in front of me. It tastes delicious. I am so glad to be alive again.
After placing my drink down, I take out Mary’s book. ‘Lads, I need your help.’
A few of them groan and shake their heads.
‘I need some people to buy this book. I can’t explain why.’
Bread grabs the copy from me. ‘Why are you flogging dodgy books now, Clark?’
I chuckle. ‘It’s not dodgy. I just need you all to help me. Bread, I was there for you the other day when you wanted a date with that woman from that karaoke bar.’
He nods. ‘Yeah, you did. We went out. She wouldn’t sleep with me, though.’
‘Dating doesn’t work like that, Bread.’ I roll my eyes and turn to my other friends. ‘Minty, I stepped in when you needed an extra person for five-a-side.’
Minty, who is six-foot-five, and is often referred to as the man mountain, makes a noise that sounds like a yes. He is also a man of few words and now communicates via grunts.
I take my other friends in turn and point out all the favours I’ve done for them. After much discussion, they all decided to buy a copy of Mary’s book. I force them all to take out their phones and do it now.
‘Mam loves steamy romance,’ says Bread. ‘I’ll give it to her when it arrives.’
Brilliant. It might only be a few copies but it’s a start. Now I can get pissed.
Bread taps me on the knee. ‘Your ex-girlfriend is here. Don’t know if you saw her.’ He gestures across the room, and there is Margo, gazing right at me. She’s surrounded by her friends. I watch as she runs a hand through her long blonde hair and flutters her black eyelashes at me.
I let out a silent groan and look away. ‘Bread, keep me away from her. That’s your mission tonight.’