Chapter 16
CLARK
Florence is at my door. I hope she’s not come to drop off any bags of cat poop. I let her in and notice how strange it feels to see her entering my living room.
‘I think I’ve helped Jane but I’m not sure,’ she announces, nibbling on her thumbnail and flicking me a nervous glance. This is a new version of Florence. Her amber-coloured eyes are no longer bold, and her voice has been stripped of its usual growl.
I watch as she surveys my living room. Is that a look of surprise at my décor? In the two years I’ve lived on the cul-de-sac, Florence has never set foot inside my house.
I am proud of my living room. In the centre is a brown leather sofa, and opposite it is a solid wood coffee table with a slightly distressed finish.
My walls are cream and adorned with large abstract artworks.
I have a wall of shelves containing books, a few curated objects and an array of cactus plants.
‘Wow, this is not what I was expecting.’ She wanders over to browse my bookshelves.
I scratch my head. ‘Can I ask what you thought you would see?’
‘A lot of mess,’ she mumbles. ‘This is stylish and tidy.’
I smile. ‘The ladies like it.’
She scowls and heads for my kitchen. I watch her come to a shuddering halt in front of her dad’s photo, which is hung by the door. In the picture, Harry is standing in front of the barbecue at one of his legendary family parties.
Florence shoots me a look of complete shock. ‘You have a photo of Dad?’
‘He was a legend,’ I say. ‘I miss him a lot.’
She’s blinking at me but not saying anything.
‘It took me ages to feel like myself again after he died. This photo helps. When I look at it, I always hear his voice in my head, “Get the barbecue out, Clark”.’
‘I never knew that about you,’ she mumbles.
My mind brings back the uncomfortable memory of Harry, the one that often catches me when I least expect it.
I had popped over to their house to give him a belated birthday gift: a bottle of his favourite whisky.
Yvonne, Florence’s mum, had greeted me at the door and told me Harry was in his garage sorting out the car.
She made a joke about how his beloved Jaguar was his mistress.
I went out to the garage and found him collapsed on the floor.
He’d had a stroke. It was one of the worst days of my life.
When I saw him, he was still drifting in and out of consciousness.
As I shouted for Yvonne, I took out my phone and dialled 999.
Before the ambulance came, Harry managed to say something.
It was hard to make out as his speech was slurred, but I caught enough.
A promise. Florence was his little princess.
It was no surprise that he asked me. I blinked back tears and said that I would carry out his wish.
Even though Florence and I have been locked in a great war since childhood, and some days we struggle to even talk to each other, I would keep his promise.
It’s something I’ve never told Florence.
I remember his funeral. It was a grey and miserable day. The church was packed. He was a popular guy. Several people made speeches about him, his life and the dreadful jokes he would tell when drunk.
Florence’s speech was the best. She made the congregation laugh by discussing her father’s approach to barbecues.
There was the preparation stage, which included Harry buying more booze than meat.
He would say everyone was wrong, and they’d all have to eat humble pie when he’d made enough food to feed the street.
The cooking stage was where he spent most of his time away from the barbecue, playing mini golf or howling with laughter with his mates.
He would cremate the meat but would somehow make the most delicious fried onions.
The eating stage would follow. Harry would eat more than his fair share of burnt hot dogs and be heard apologising to a load of hungry family members or friends that he didn’t make enough after all.
I can feel myself getting emotional as I think back on the memories. And I can sense that Florence might be doing the same. I need to distract us both. ‘What happened with Jane?’
She glances back up at her father and then at me. ‘I think it went okay.’
‘You think? What does that mean?’
Scooping up her long hair, she pulls it into a ponytail. ‘She’s lonely. We talked and I also gave her some advice on a creative project. It was weird.’
I pull out a kitchen stool and sit down. ‘Why?’
‘Jane and I have so much in common. She’s into books.’
My brain loses contact with my mouth. ‘Does she review them too?’
Florence’s eyes are narrowing, and her eyebrows have formed a sharp ‘V’. ‘How do you know I review books?’
Oh, God. Why did I say that?
Quick, Clark, think! She must not know the truth.
‘Oh, erm, your mum told me.’
She gives me an odd look, and an awkward silence descends upon us.
‘If you helped her, then we will have passed,’ I say as her shoulders drop a little and she chews on her nail.
‘I did, but I’m not sure it…’ She pauses, and my stomach goes on a nauseating spin. ‘…it was enough.’
I gulp. ‘Why not?’
Her eyes are studying something on my tiled kitchen floor. ‘I have a feeling.’
All the saliva in my mouth evaporates. If I am right and the afterlife only gave us three chances, we are doomed.
‘But you helped her?’ I query.
Florence casts me a pained expression. ‘I think I was a bit bossy.’
‘Not surprising.’
She scowls. ‘I was trying to help her. What about you?’ she mumbles. ‘How did you get on?’
‘I changed a lightbulb in Pearl’s bedroom, and I saw a photo of her true love.’
She gasps. ‘And who is he?’
I take out my phone. ‘He’s in his youth, but he’s got a familiar look about him.’
‘I’m good with faces. Let me see.’
I show her the photo. She stares at it for a few moments. ‘Is that Pearl dancing?’ she asks.
‘Yes, she looks stunning, doesn’t she?’
Florence nods. ‘Her dress is amazing.’
I point to the man. ‘What about him? Do you recognise him?’
Her eyebrows rocket up her forehead, and her mouth forms a perfect ‘O’ shape. ‘Mr Beaver.’
My heart grinds to a halt. I look at the photo on my screen. Surely not. Mr Beaver?
I look again, and Florence is right. It’s him. Those dark, piercing eyes used to stare at us while we were figuring out his maths problems.
She nods. ‘I can still smell his tweed suit jacket – damp and cigarettes. I also remember the algebra tests he set us. Our test sheets would be handed back looking like he’d attacked them with a red pen.
And I can still picture him terrorising the school corridors, handing out detentions like sweets. ’
I think of Pearl. ‘Mr Beaver is her long-lost love?’
Florence grimaces. ‘We all used to gossip about whether Old Beaver had a long-suffering wife. Everyone agreed that if she existed, she deserved a medal. One of the history teachers once told us that Mr Beaver had been single all his life, which made a lot of sense at the time. Who would fall in love with him?’
‘There was this photo of them dancing on Pearl’s dressing table.’
I think about what Pearl told me about her life. ‘She moved here ten years ago after her husband passed away. I think Mr Beaver had moved by then. They must have missed each other.’
A smile spreads across Florence’s face, and I brace myself for something irritating to come out of her mouth. ‘Clark, you were the only kid in school who liked Old Beaver. You sent him a Get Well card when he was ill.’
‘He was a misunderstood chap,’ I say in his defence, thinking back to my detentions where Mr Beaver and I would chat about everything other than maths. ‘I went to visit him in the hospital after he’d had that heart attack. It was Year 8 in secondary school.’
My revelation makes her gasp.
I nod. ‘I’ve never told anyone about that.’
‘The whole school would have stopped talking to you if word got out. Your Get Well card was bad, but a hospital visit as well – really?’
I nod. ‘He was poorly. I lied and said he was my grandad. I doubt he remembers me being there though. He was hooked up to all these machines.’
Florence is staring at me, her amber-coloured eyes widening dramatically. ‘Wow, I never knew this about you. Why did you go and see him in the hospital?’
‘I didn’t want him to die alone. My mum told me how serious a heart attack can be, and I think I panicked.’ My nan’s face flashes across my mind. ‘It was a few months after Nan…’ I stop and take a breath.
To my surprise, Florence’s face softens. ‘I remember your Nana Olive.’
I blink. ‘Really?’
She nods. ‘You blamed yourself after she died – didn’t you?’
My heart falters. How does she know this? ‘Err… yes, I did. Florence – are you a secret mind reader?’
She shakes her head. ‘Dad told me. He said I had to be nice to you.’ She glances up at her father. ‘You weren’t to know she would fall down the stairs.’
My chest tightens. ‘If I had gone to visit her that afternoon, like I said I would, she might not have fallen, or I could have phoned for an ambulance. She wouldn’t have died alone in her hallway.’
‘Clark, you were a young lad,’ says Florence. ‘You need to forgive yourself for going to a last-minute football match. Dad said your mum was at home and she could have gone over while you were at the football.’
We both go quiet, and I silently tell my nan I love her.
‘I thought your Nana Olive was a legend, if you must know,’ says Florence. ‘She used to come to garden parties with a handbag full of sweets and chocolate. I used to make a beeline for her.’
I smile. ‘Thanks.’
‘What was it like when you visited Mr Beaver? Did he shout at you from his hospital bed?’
I shake my head and picture the memory of the frail old man lying there. ‘At one point he did wake up. If I remember, he wasn’t making much sense. A nurse apologised and explained to me that he was very unwell.’
She sighs. ‘I wish I could like the man, but he was horrible for years.’
‘So, if Mr Beaver is Pearl’s long-lost love, then I need to find him. He doesn’t work at the school any more. Bread’s little brother told me they had a party when he finally left.’
Anxiety nibbles away at me. Tracking him down is going to be hard. By the time I find him, the test could be over, and I will be stuck in the afterlife.
Florence takes out her phone. ‘I’m sure someone on the school reunion Facebook group saw him the other day while they were on holiday. Let me look now.’
‘Oh, that would be useful,’ I say earnestly. ‘I can’t see Mr Beaver on social media.’
Florence is scrolling. ‘They met him in a seaside shop. He told them he lived in the village.’ She nods. ‘Here’s the post. He’s living in a tiny village called Pixie Cove in Devon.’
‘Pixie Cove. How far away is that?’ I open Google Maps. My heart sinks. ‘Two hours and eleven minutes.’
‘You need to find him, Clark.’
I scratch my head. ‘I suppose I could go this afternoon. I’ve thrown a sickie at work.’ I look at her. ‘Do you fancy a road trip?’
Something flickers across her face. For a few fleeting moments, I think she’s going to say yes. Then she blinks and casts me a disapproving look. ‘A road trip with you? No thanks, Clark. I have better things to do with my time.’
My irritation levels spike. ‘How come I have to drive all the way to Devon, and you get to be bossy to Jane over a latte?’
‘It wasn’t like that.’ She shakes her head and walks towards the front door. ‘We need to pass the test.’
‘Hang on, what do I do if I find him?’
She shrugs. ‘Tell him about Pearl.’
‘This doesn’t feel very fair,’ I moan.
‘Clark, we need to pass. This stupid test is messing with my head.’
I nod. ‘Me too. Earlier, I hugged Pearl like it was the last time I’d see her.’
She looks at me with watery eyes. ‘Find Mr Beaver, Clark.’
I sigh and glance again at Google Maps. Pixie Cove, here I come.