Page 37 of Waiting for a Bright New Future

“Just a neighbour, you say?” Jennifer’s expression was teasing him.

Just then the quiet lane ended in a noisy T-junction with an A-road and all conversation stopped as the group concentrated on crossing the fast-moving traffic and picking up the lane on the other side. By then Jennifer had moved forward in the group and he was alongside Mike.

“I’ve finally decided to sell Mavis’s bike,” he said. “Every time I see it hanging in the garage is a fresh punch in the stomach. Grief is a funny thing, but, as my daughter keeps saying, it’s time to move forward.”

Stuart nodded and for a few minutes there was an easy silence between the two men as they freewheeled at speed downhill, generating a wind that would have grabbed any speech.

Stuart remembered Jayne’s eighteenth again. He saw her teenage grin as they’d raced and she’d pulled slightly ahead of him. He remembered how carefree they’d been, abandoning their bikes as soon as they’d reached the quarry and falling into each other’s arms. Was that feeling of weightlessness only for the young or could they find it again?

“I might be interested in the bike,” he said as they slowed against the resistance of a gentler slope. “How much are you asking?”

Mike looked pleased. “I’d let you have it for free. Mavis would be glad it was going to a good home. But what would you be wanting with a ladies’ bike?” Jennifer’s earlier inquisitive look had transplanted itself to Mike.

“Let’s just call her a friend.”

Later Stuart drove to Mike’s, folded down the backseats of his car and carefully loaded the bike in. The other man’s mouth wobbled with emotion even though he was trying to control his expression.

“Cheers for this. It will be looked after, I promise.” Stuart patted Mike’s arm. “And I owe you a pint.”

Late that evening, Jacob phoned unexpectedly on the landline. Florence was still out at a gig and Stuart took the call.

“I didn’t try her mobile.” Jacob’s voice was strained. “I didn’t want her to get the news when she was out somewhere. I wanted her to be at home and secure with you. She talks a lot about you.”

The sentiment of the last sentence hardly registered with Stuart. “News? What news?” Not one of the children, please. That would destroy her. She doted on those children.

“Shirley has died of a drug overdose. It must have happened sometime over the weekend. I found her when I took the children back. Or rather Eunice did. She was first into the flat. I should’ve realised something was wrong when she didn’t answer the door and I had to use my key.”

It was as though something had happened to Stuart’s own loved ones. He’d heard so much about this little family and how much they meant to Florence. “Oh my God. How are the children?”

“In bits. Shirley wasn’t the world’s best mum but she was the only mum they had. They loved her. They’ve finally cried themselves to sleep, which is why I’m ringing you so late.”

Florence was going to be devastated. Stuart wanted the words she heard to be as gentle as possible. “Would you like me to tell her when she gets back?”

“That would be great.” Stuart could sense Jacob’s relief. “I didn’t want to ask you to do such an awful job. Telling a mother her child is dead — it’s a terrible thing to lay at anyone’s door.”

“It’s OK. I’d rather she didn’t hear it over the phone. But there’ll be questions. She’ll want to talk to you. Can she ring you back tonight? I can’t imagine any of us sleeping much.”

“Tonight’s fine.”

Stuart’s hand shook as he put the phone down. How was he going to do this? It was late and the house had become chilly. He put the gas fire on in the lounge, turned off the overhead light and switched on the two standard lamps. They were part of his mother’s homemaking legacy and rarely used because they weren’t bright enough to read by and unnecessary when the main light was on. He wondered about alcohol and decided against it. Hot, sweet tea was the traditional remedy for everything. Perhaps biscuits. It was a shame he had none of Lillian’s lemon drizzle cake — sugar was always good. He sat on the sofa and tried to rehearse in his head how he was going to break the news.

The sound of tyres on gravel made him jump. He got to the front door before she had time to put her key in the lock.

“You’re up late.”

“I’ll make you some tea. You must be tired. Go and sit in the lounge.”

She made no effort to move away from him. She frowned. “Why are you acting strangely? You should be in bed.”

“Please, let me do this for you.” In a second the words would tumble out of him, here in the hallway with her still in her coat and little red boots. He didn’t want that.

“OK. OK.”

When he carried the tray into the lounge, she was cosily on the sofa with her legs tucked under her, scrolling through her phone.

“Tea and Jaffa cakes.”

“Is this a ruse to get me to watch some late-night political discussion? If it is, you need to buy more Belgian chocolates. Jaffa cakes don’t cut the mustard.” Her eyes were teasing him and she had that amazing, genuinely happy smile that he’d never seen on another living person. His words would snatch that from her. Possibly for ever.

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