When Archie Met Rosie Read online

  ‘It’s a family house,’ Moira keeps saying. ‘It’s only fair that you sell it now. It’s far too big for one person.’

  I don’t know what’s fair about it. I worked blooming hard for that house, why should I hand it over to someone else just because they’re younger. Both Cath and I worked hard. I put all the hours God sent into my building business. We went years without a holiday. Cath never complained, not like Moira. I don’t see why I should sell my house to a family because it’s only fair. If you want it, you’ve got to earn it, is my motto. I’ve lived there for fifty years. What Moira really means is, I should hand it over to her and Harry. That’s what she’s hoping.

  ‘It needs a lot of work,’ she’s fond of saying.

  A double flush and remote bog is what she means, and white fluffy towels all over the show. If she wants a nice five-bedroomed house, then Harry should pull his socks up and stop fantasising that he’s a modern-day Harold Pinter and knuckle down to his job. Everyone keeps climbing over him and getting promotions. He could have had his own accountancy business by now. I don’t know what’s wrong with my son letting a woman talk to him like Moira does. It’s not natural. A man should be boss in his own home.

  Harry’s an accountant and I made the stupid mistake of letting him handle our finances. I thought I’d save a few bob. Never try and save a few bob, is my advice. Now, of course, he knows everything I’m worth and so does Moira and she’s got her beady eyes on it. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’s already worked out what the inheritance will be after tax and whatnot.

  ‘Hello son,’ I say, reaching the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘You okay Dad?’

  I wish they’d stop asking me that. Of course I’m not okay. I only lost my wife six months ago.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

  ‘You’re early,’ says Moira.

  It sounds like a reprimand.

  ‘I had a meeting in Ilford. It didn’t seem worth going back.’

  No, God forbid you may do an extra bit of work.

  ‘He’s going to watch Countdown,’ says Moira following me; the strong aroma of Domestos trailing from her.

  I wish she wouldn’t talk about me as though I’m not here. As soon as you hit seventy, everyone treats you like you’re deaf, blind and stupid. It’s insulting.

  ‘I didn’t know you liked Countdown,’ says Harry.

  I don’t but there’s not much point saying anything. He hangs his coat neatly on the middle hook of the coat rack, while the Führer stands by to make sure he does. I watch in disgust, in disgust I tell you, as he removes his shiny shoes, places them neatly on a shelf in the hall cupboard and then pulls out a pair of blue mules. Well, he calls them mules. They’re slippers, plain and simple. Slippers, I ask you? If you want my opinion, and of course, you may not, slippers are for wimps. I’ve never worn a pair of slippers in my life. Our Cath only tried that once. It was one of my Christmas presents. I soon put her straight.

  ‘I’m not wearing slippers,’ I told her. ‘Real men don’t wear slippers.’

  ‘Okay Alf,’ she’d said, and she never bought me another pair.

  Harry now carefully places his wallet, loose change and iPhone onto the well-polished sideboard.

  ‘Right,’ says Moira, letting out a long breath. ‘I’ll make tea and then I have some paperwork to do.’

  She shakes her head and sighs. ‘No rest for the wicked.’

  Huh. I fight back my scoff. Work, she calls it. Two days a week, she has, what she calls, ‘her clients’. I call them ‘people who need a kick up the backside’.

  ‘People have issues Dad,’ Harry told me. ‘It affects their home life and their working week. There are people who struggle to get out of bed some days.’

  That’s where a good kick up the backside would come in useful if you ask me.

  ‘Moira’s a good counsellor, a good Christian counsellor,’ he’s fond of saying.

  Oh yes, did I mention the God thing? I’ve got nothing against God myself. I just don’t want to be mates with him, if you know what I mean? If you want him in your life, that’s up to you but I prefer he steers clear of mine, thank you very much. But they’re into it; church on a Sunday, Bible readings, sending shoeboxes to here there and everywhere, that kind of thing. And then there’s this two days a week counselling job that Moira does. God inspired her apparently. I wish he’d inspire her to be a better daughter-in-law. Still it could be worse I suppose.

  ‘I’ll make tea,’ says Harry.

  ‘Oh, that would be lovely,’ says Moira. ‘I’ll just pop these into the washing machine.’

  She holds up the towels, looks at me and says under her breath, ‘He used the white fluffy ones. I have given him his own towels.’

  Harry shakes his head in sympathy. Moira thinks I’m deaf. That’s why she’s always shouting at me. I feigned deafness around her about ten years ago and after that she kept nagging Cath to get me some hearing aids.

  ‘I’ll go and watch Countdown,’ I say, pretending I hadn’t heard her comment.

  ‘I’ll have two sugars in mine and a couple of digestive biscuits,’ I add with a smile.

  ‘Dinner’s in an hour and half,’ Moira reminds me. It will be too. On the dot, I assure you.

  ‘I’ll be hungry then, won’t I? You’d better make that four digestives, Harry.’

  The lounge smells of leather and Pledge. I hate their leather sofas. They’re so uncomfortable. The lounge reminds me of one of those showrooms at the Ideal Home exhibition. Cath and I went once. She wanted to go. I didn’t, but I went for her. The showrooms were immaculate. All shiny and clean, just like Harry and Moira’s. I reckon Moira copied the style from one of those house and garden magazines. Cath enjoyed the Ideal Home though and we came home with all sorts of strange gadgets. The only one we ever used was the can opener that you fixed to the wall. That was a handy little thing. It lasted us years. We must have been in our twenties then. We’d just had our Harry. He was normal then. I can’t fathom what happened but he sure ain’t normal now. I blame religion. It turns you funny if you want my opinion, but you probably don’t. I mean, look at what religion has done. Take those …

  The booming sound of the television breaks into my thoughts. It’s too invasive this tele. It’s huge too. It sits centre stage in their space-age living room, while the remotes stand like soldiers on the over-polished coffee table. I can’t work them out. Cath and I had a normal tele. One remote and that was that, none of that ‘catch up’ malarkey. Who had the time? I was busy working my backside off to support my wife and son. You probably think I’m a crotchety old bugger and you’re probably right. I’ve just lost my wife. She was only seventy. That was nice of Harry’s God wasn’t it?

  ‘Need a pen and paper, Dad?’ Harry asks.

  ‘Oh, go on then,’ I say.

  He carefully places the tea mugs onto placemats that have photos printed on them from their skiing holiday in Austria last year. I can’t imagine what they cost. Holly’s pretty face is covered by a teacup ring but she still looks great. It’s a shame she is so spoilt. I want to dip my digestive into the tea. I hope it’s not that Earl Grey stuff. That’s not blooming tea is it? I keep telling Moira I don’t like it. I take the pen and play Countdown with my son. I’ve nothing else to do.

  ‘I’ll thrash you,’ says Harry.

  Life, it’s a funny old game isn’t it?

  Chapter Three

  Rosie

  ‘We shouldn’t have left that bacon frying,’ whispers Doris, fidgeting beside me.

  The letter box flap opens, and we duck down behind the couch.

  ‘Your bum’s in my face,’ complains Doris.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Foster. Are you there?’ calls a voice.

  ‘I can’t believe I’m doing this,’ I whisper.

  ‘You can’t believe it?’ Doris sighs. ‘I’ve never hidden behind a couch in my life and my knees really aren’t up to it.’

  It turns out that Frank didn’t only owe fifty quid t
o Freemans catalogue, like he’d told me, but actually owed money to just about everyone in Romford, and now everyone wants me to cough up. I’ve never been so popular. I’m not letting on about my winnings. I’ve hidden that in a carrier bag under the bed. I know what you’re thinking. That’s not the safest place when you live on the Tradmore Estate.

  As soon as the policeman had donned his hat and driven off in his Panda that night, Doris and Shirl had ushered me up the urine-scented stairs to my flat. They’d made me a hot sweet tea. Doris had said that’s the best thing for shock, except I’d run out of normal sugar, so they used icing sugar instead, which was a bit weird. All the same, I drank the hot thick liquid and tried to take in the fact that Frank had gone.

  ‘Will you get a bereavement allowance?’ Doris had asked.

  I couldn’t even cry. I felt sad, but not distraught. The thing is Frank wasn’t the love of my life. I don’t even know why I married him. Well I do. It was because of Sam. I should have gone on the pill like all my mates had, but I hadn’t, and Frank was likeable enough. Not a dreamboat or anything but we can’t all have George Clooneys, can we? Anyway, once I got pregnant I didn’t have much choice. Frank wasn’t a great husband, but you just got on with things. Not like now, where everyone gets divorced at the drop of a hat. So, here I am, just past sixty and widowed. My husband cut down in his prime. Okay, Frank was sixty-five, but he always said he was in his prime. Not the way he’d have wanted to go, mind you, knocked down by a Domino’s Pizza van because he was too shit-faced to see it coming. They tell me he wouldn’t have felt anything. It was very quick. That’s how I want to go. Not knocked down by a Domino’s Pizza van, I don’t mean, but quick. I don’t want to know anything about it. I’d actually rather not even be there when it happens, but we’re all in that queue aren’t we? I only wish I was a bit nearer the back. I need to organise the funeral today. Not mine, obviously. I mean Frank’s funeral. I bought myself a new holdall from the 99p shop so I could carry my five grand around with me. I’m starting to wish I’d taken a cheque now. But that would have meant putting into our bank account and then it would have gone on our, or I should say Frank’s, outstanding debts immediately. No, it’s best to have the cash, but I’m a woman alone now. Not that I was any safer when Frank was around. He was a bit of a wimp to tell you the truth. I know it’s wrong to speak ill of the dead, but if I’m honest, I never had a good word for him when he was alive, so I’m not starting now. Frank won’t come back and haunt me. He’s too lazy for that.

  ‘He’s gone,’ says Doris, helping me up from behind the sofa. ‘Mind your hip.’

  ‘I need to get an outfit for the funeral,’ I say.

  I have a vision of the five thousand quid slipping through my fingers. Honestly, Frank always gets my money, even when he’s dead.

  ‘You must have something black and dreary,’ says Doris, hurrying to the frying bacon.

  The only black outfit I have is the cocktail dress I bought for Sam’s wedding. It’s low cut and sequinned. Not quite the thing for your husband’s funeral is it? I don’t imagine people will expect me to be all tarted up. Not that they’ll be many people there. Maybe I’ll wear my black work trousers and buy a new top. I can’t really wear my Waitrose blouse can I, although it is quite dark? No, Frank deserves better than that.

  ‘I only have that dress I bought for Sam’s wedding,’ I say.

  Doris wrinkles her nose.

  ‘Mutton dressed as lamb that would be,’ she mumbles while spreading HP sauce over our bacon butties. I don’t like HP sauce. Frank chucks it over everything, or at least he did. He won’t be chucking HP over anything now, will he? I feel a lump form in my throat. It’s not for Frank if that’s what you’re thinking. I just don’t know how I’ll manage now. Frank didn’t bring in much money, I’ll grant you, but it was an income that I won’t now have. I’ll never cover the rent on my Waitrose salary and they won’t accept a family-size bag of popcorn, will they? I’ll have to ask for more hours at the store. They always have extra shifts going. Honestly, when my mum was my age she was drawing her pension. I don’t feel sixty. Well you don’t, do you? If I only looked as young as I feel, I’d be laughing. I’m not a bad-looking sixty-year old. I don’t have too many wrinkles. Doris has loads. I keep myself nice. I’d like to buy one of those expensive face creams. I thought I might. It was one of the first things I thought of when I won the bingo. How vain was that? I’ve probably missed the boat, anyway. You can’t repair the damage can you, but it would have been nice to try.

  The doorbell rings making Doris and me jump.

  ‘Oh no,’ I mumble. ‘Not again.’

  Doris grabs my arm to pull me behind the sofa. She’s clearly got the hang of this now. Unfortunately, we forgot to turn the cooker off and the smoke alarm is now shrieking like a banshee.

  ‘Oh my gawd,’ cries Doris.

  ‘Mrs Foster? Is everything all right,’ calls a voice through the letterbox.

  I wade through the blue haze to the front door where a wiry man stands on the threshold. Thick black-rimmed glasses hover on his nose. He looks over them at me. Doris chokes in the background.

  ‘Rose Foster?’ he asks in an official voice.

  ‘No, sorry, I can’t help you there.’

  ‘Rosie,’ calls Doris. ‘Pass us a tea towel duck, this pan is boiling hot.’

  I sigh.

  ‘I’m from Daniel’s debt collection agency,’ says the man. ‘You owe Ladbrokes seven hundred pounds. How would you prefer to pay?’

  ‘I’d prefer not to pay at all.’

  ‘I can take a cheque.’

  ‘You can,’ I say. ‘But they’ll be nothing on it.’

  ‘So, how do you intend to pay Mrs Foster?’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ll accept my body?’

  He pushes the glasses further up his nose and frowns.

  ‘I’ll pretend I never heard that,’ he says.

  I watch the glasses slide down again.

  ‘It was a joke,’ I say. ‘You’re not my type.’

  ‘Mrs Foster …’

  ‘Precisely, I’m Mrs Foster. My husband isn’t even cold yet.’

  I imagine he must be. It’s been three days now, but it sounds good doesn’t it? ‘And you’re here demanding money,’ I finish.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he says, attempting a sympathetic expression. ‘But debts have to be paid.’

  ‘Oh sod off,’ I say, slamming the door in his face.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ he says, poking his nose through the letter box.

  ‘Get a proper job,’ I shout, ‘Instead of harassing pensioners.’

  What am I saying? I’m not even claiming my pension and the last thing I want to be thought of is as an OAP.

  ‘You need a pit bull,’ says Doris clicking the kettle on. ‘That’ll keep the vultures away. Our Becky’s boyfriend’s pit bull is having puppies. Shall I save one for you?’

  ‘No, thanks all the same Doris. You can’t have a dog six floors up.’

  ‘Huh, you’ve got Maureen Spiker next door.’

  ‘I need another job,’ I say.

  ‘At your age?’ says Doris, looking surprised.

  I’m not that old. Sixty is the new forty isn’t it? Well, that’s what I’m telling myself anyway.

  ‘But you’ve already got a job at Waitrose.’

  ‘It’s not going to be enough.’

  ‘You can work for our Becky if you like. She’s looking for cleaners. Did I tell you she got a contract with the Metropolitan Police to clean up murder scenes? She’s got all the materials for clearing up the blood and getting stains out and …’

  ‘I don’t think I should be doing that at my age. You know, cleaning up after a murder.’

  Doris nods.

  ‘No, it’ll raise your blood pressure. She needs cleaners for normal jobs though. She provides all the cleaning materials. It pays alright as well.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll pop round and see her.’

  Nothin
g shameful about cleaning is there? It’s a pity I’ll have to lug my five grand around with me. Shame about Paris too, that would have been nice.

  Chapter Four

  Rosie

  ‘I wish I didn’t have to do this,’ I say, as we stand outside the funeral directors.

  ‘You’ve got to do it. He can’t stay here forever,’ says Doris pulling me forward.

  I wonder what happens to bodies that no one claims. That’s daft isn’t it? I’m sure there aren’t unclaimed bodies. But what if there were? If I left Frank here, would they dispose of him?

  ‘Come on,’ says Doris, pushing me through the door.

  It smells lovely inside; all flowery and calm. A smartly dressed man with a neatly trimmed beard seems to float towards us.

  ‘Hello, you must be Mrs Foster,’ he says. He speaks so quietly that I can barely hear him.

  ‘Yes,’ I say almost in a whisper. Are we afraid of waking the dead?

  ‘I’m Graham,’ he says, shaking my hand so slowly that it feels like everything is happening in slow motion. ‘I’ll be helping to arrange your funeral today.’

  That’s unfortunate wording isn’t it? I’ve got no intention of arranging my funeral today, or any other day, come to that.

  ‘And you must be?’ he says, taking Doris’s hand.

  ‘Doris. Doris Smith.’

  ‘My friend,’ I say.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘My friend,’ I say raising my voice.

  ‘Come through,’ he smiles.

  There’s a monotonous organ playing in the background. I’m sure if he turned that down and his voice up, I might be able to hear what he’s saying.

  ‘Please accept our sincerest condolences on the passing of your husband Frederick,’ he says, pointing to two chairs.