Page 2 of Waiting for a Bright New Future

“Breakfast, Dad! Then we need to get a move on. Mr Finch is coming for your autograph today.”

Silence.

Stuart put the tray down on the chest of drawers and patted his father’s hand. “Let me sit you up ready to eat.”

No response. The muscles froze in Stuart’s stomach. He looked at his father’s chest. Nothing. The coldness in Stuart’s torso spread to his heart, morphing into fear. Trembling, he leaned over and put his cheek next to the old man’s nose and mouth. No breath. The coldness in Stuart’s body threatened to buckle his legs.

“Dad! It’s time to wake up!”

Stuart’s voice bounced around the room but there was no response. Eric was dead. This day had been on the horizon for years, tied up in a confusing spaghetti of emotions. In his darkest moments Stuart had looked forward to it. And then immediately felt guilty and disgusted with himself for even contemplating it. Mostly he’d wished it further and further away. But never had he actually considered the practicalities of being faced with his father’s dead body.

Chapter Two

He thought fleetingly of calling 999, but any emergency had long since passed. Should he find an undertaker or did a doctor need to certify the death first? Whoever came, should he position his father ready in a respectable position? Dress him in his best suit? There was a new shirt in the cupboard plus the sombre tie Eric had worn at his wife’s funeral forty-five years ago. Getting the fashion right suddenly seemed of enormous importance. He didn’t want people to think less of his father now he was dead. He opened the wardrobe and pulled out suit trousers. Eric wouldn’t want strangers seeing him in his pyjama bottoms.

The doorbell made him jump. Then he remembered: Mr Finch. He was early but he would know the procedure. Stuart almost jumped down the stairs.

Lillian was on the doorstep, not Mr Finch.

“Lillian.” Seeing her kind, open face and grown-up appearance, he fought to stop himself using the ‘Aunty’ prefix of his childhood. “My father just died.”

Lillian’s face froze, whatever else she’d been about to say forgotten as she processed Stuart’s announcement. Then her sensible adultness took over. “Just? You were able to be with him. Thanks be to God. That must have been such a comfort to both of you.”

“No.” The word came out as a shameful mumble. He’d been warned his father didn’t have long. He shouldn’t have gone out. Every minute should have been spent at his father’s bedside, just in case. “I don’t know when he died. I found him.” It seemed hours ago that he’d prepared that cereal and tea, now sitting congealed and cold next to his father. He looked at his watch; shockingly, only a few minutes had passed since the radio news headlines had accompanied his heating milk for the Weetabix. “A few minutes ago.” A lump, that he hadn’t known was in his throat, broke. The rest of his words were distorted by sobs. “I don’t know what to do next.”

“Do nothing, for a while.”

Lillian guided him into the kitchen. She instructed him to make mugs of strong, hot tea and to find some biscuits. Then she went upstairs.

A couple of minutes later she was back with the still-laden breakfast tray. As Stuart poured the tea, his hands were shaking and he felt pathetically grateful to this old lady for stepping out of her own growing confusion to help him.

“Poor old Eric. But, I think his passing was peaceful.” She patted Stuart on the shoulder. “And he’s back with your mum now. No need to worry about either of them.”

What about me?Sandra demanded inside his head.Do I no longer feature on the list of this family’s significant dead people?

“Let’s talk about this later,” he whispered to her.

“Sorry? What did you say?” Lillian turned from emptying the Weetabix sludge into the pages of yesterday’sThe Timesto make it into a parcel for the bin.

“What should I do next?”

“We. What shouldwedo next? I’m not leaving you to deal with this alone. First you call the surgery. We should get a doctor out here.”

The rest of the day had a dreamlike quality. At times, things happened in slow motion and then things collided together at speed. Mr Finch arrived and was despatched back to his office with a promise to get in touch after the funeral. It was late afternoon before the undertaker took Eric away, leaving Stuart shell-shocked.

“Come and eat with me and Jayne,” Lillian suggested. “It’s not a time for being alone. And you might want to talk to Jayne about that unsigned will? She’s a legal secretary, you know. I overheard you and that solicitor talking.”

“Robert and George!” It was impossible that he could’ve forgotten to tell his brothers about the death of their father. “I’ll phone them now.”

“And then you’ll come round to eat? Jayne’s moving back in with me. That’s what I came to tell you this morning. She’s under the impression I’m going doolally — but we both know that’s not true, don’t we?”

“Right. No. I need to catch my thoughts.” He was too dazed to be sociable or to focus on any one thing.

Lillian patted his shoulder and left.

The house was more silent than it had ever been. Did life and hope have a sound even when none was audible? Did death suck that sound away leaving a vacuum?

He phoned Robert first.

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