‘Wall stuff? Fairy lights? What on earth?’
‘Dad! Everyone has fairy lights in their room. It’s a thing.’
‘It’s not a thing in Burston. Crikey, when I was a lad people thought you were posh if you bothered with a lampshade on the big light.’ He laughed. ‘And besides, can you imagine what Eric and the like would say if they knew you were buying lights from Ikea! They’d say, “What’s wrong with Siddley lights? Are we not good enough for you now you’ve got a place at a fancy university?”’ He smiled at the half-truth.
‘Okay, can I just say, don’t start any conversation with anyone you meet at Uni with the words, “When I was a lad” or “Flippin’ ’eck!”’
‘Olly, you haven’t even finished your degree and you’re already ashamed of me. This must be the great social divide everyone speaks about.’
‘That’s right. And I am ashamed of you. I don’t want Siddley lights, I want Ikea lights, and while we are on the subject, don’t try to make a joke with anyone. Your jokes aren’t funny, which makes them more like weird statements.’ Oliver jumped from the passenger seat and shut the door, laughing.
‘My jokes are funny,’ Nick huffed.
‘They’re not, Dad. It’s just that no one has the heart to tell you.’
‘Well, you’re certainly all heart today, son.’
Nick followed him. This was a good day. Not one he had been looking forward to. Dropping his only child in a city he had never visited was a fearful prospect, but packing up the car to leave that morning, chatting en route, stopping at the service station for a gargantuan breakfast and, even here, in this soulless car park, as their light-hearted jibes flew back and forth, it felt as if a weight had been lifted, distracted as they were from the business of grief by this momentous day.
Oliver grabbed a trolley and Nick felt an uncomfortable shiver at just how much money might be spent. They had only been financially straight for a year or so, and since Kerry had been ill he had worked his set hours and no more, which meant no bonus and no spare cash. Not that he would have changed a thing; spending as much time as possible with her had of course been his priority, and neither did he want to restrict his son in any way or put a dampener on this day, but all that aside, with money tight, it was always at the forefront of his mind. His five-hundred-pound nest egg was more quail-sized than ostrich. They wandered into the store and found themselves in the ‘marketplace’.
‘What on earth are these?’ Nick picked up the flat square rubber trays that were stacked in a myriad of colours, running his fingers over the jigsaw-shaped indents.
‘They are novelty ice-cube makers.’ Oliver held his gaze, clearly waiting for the retort.
‘Of course they are. Who buys this stuff?’ Nick could see no sense in spending good money just to have your ice in the shape of a jigsaw piece or a ball, and who bothered with ice anyway?
‘Everyone apart from us, Dad, that’s who.’
Nick laughed heartily. ‘Now that’s funny. I remember you coming home from school and telling me you needed a BMX because everyone had one apart from you, but you were seven. I thought you might have grown up enough to think of a more convincing argument.’
‘It was true, everyone had a BMX apart from me!’
‘Everyone?’ Nick raised his eyebrows.
‘Well, all of my mates, and so it felt like everyone.’
‘When I was not much older than seven, my dad—’
‘I know. I know.’ Oliver raised his palm. ‘He made you build a bike and it taught you a lesson, blah-di-blah-di-blah! I really don’t need to hear the bike story again, but while we are on the subject, everyone did have a BMX apart from me.’
‘Okay, Olly, you win. I shall get you a BMX, for Christmas.’
‘I don’t want one now! But a new car would be nice.’
Nick lobbed the ice-cube tray back on to the pile and walked on with the cart.
New car would be nice! Don’t I bloody know it . . .
He pictured the shiny new silver Jaguar with a hefty price tag sitting on the forecourt at Mackie’s, which Nick had admired while having his own car serviced.
‘She’s a beauty, eh?’ Bob had whistled and let his eyes sweep her sleek silver curves.
‘Really is. Bit out of my league, I’m afraid,’ Nick had joked, swallowing the bitter tang of jealousy that flared on his tongue. What wouldn’t he give to drive a car like that? How did you get to be a bloke who could afford that kind of car?
‘Right, back to your heap of shite,’ Bob had joked, turning his attention to Nick’s motor.
Nick had nodded his understanding that the brake discs were on the cusp and the front left tyre a mere millimetre away from a failure, and he had promised, hand on heart, to get the work done. And he would, when funds allowed.
‘Oh, and Gina said to say hello.’
Nick had coughed and left the garage a little quicker than was polite. Better that than run into Gina Mackie.
He and Oliver navigated the vast interior of the store, where studio sets were laid out in a way that made him feel that every room, in fact every facet of their home, was dated and in serious need of an upgrade. This he could apparently achieve with the addition of fancy potted plants, sofas with matching footstools and bookshelves crammed with everything from cacti to candlesticks and quirky photo frames, but no actual books.
‘Here we are: bedroom stuff.’ Oliver rushed ahead and Nick caught him up. The two stared at the racks filled with bundles of cream-coloured quilted things, labelled with long and complicated Swedish names peppered with ‘O’s and ‘A’s carrying dots and circles above.
‘Flippin’ ’eck!’ Nick exclaimed and stared at the array.
‘That’s the second “flippin’ ’eck” moment you’ve had today.’
‘I know, but where do we start with this lot?’ He stared at the bewildering display. ‘All you need is a basic double duvet and a cover. I wish your mum was here.’
And just like that, his words sucked the joy from the moment, firmly bringing down the shutter of reality on this fun-packed day. It was the truth; Nick wished it were Kerry trawling the shelves, confident that she would know exactly what size and tog ‘Hönsbör’, ‘Myskgräs’ or ‘Tilkört’ to go for.
Oliver grabbed a plastic-wrapped duvet, stuffed inside its wrapping to form a cylindrical shape.
‘This one?’
‘I reckon so.’ Nick nodded as Oliver lobbed it in the trolley, quickly followed by a pack of two flattened pillows.
Nick cursed the solemn mood he had created, but was not about to start censoring the mention of his wife; that would be the very worst thing. It was, as his mum had reminded him only that very morning, early days.
And it was. Seven weeks . . . Less than two months since he had walked into that room at St Vincent’s and watched her pale, grey face rattle its last breath. Seven weeks that felt simultaneously like seven hours, or seven minutes. He wondered if this feeling, this sense of shock, would ever pass.
‘I said which one?’ Oliver said firmly, holding two packets up to chest level, while Nick mentally caught up.
‘That one.’ He pointed to a grey-and-white-striped duvet cover, which he chose at random.