‘Oh, Nicky!’ she sobbed. The only person still to call him this, and a name he disliked but didn’t have the heart to tell her so.
‘We are okay, Mum.’
‘No, you are not!’ She trod the step and wrapped him uncomfortably in a short, tight hug. ‘You’re not okay, and you’re still my lad, no matter how old you get. Did you get my texts? I didn’t know whether to come over last night or whether to leave you with Olly to talk things through. I couldn’t sleep. I sat in the chair all night with Treacle on my lap and I’ve cried a river. It’s so unfair, Nicky, so bloody unfair!’
‘It is.’ He unhooked Treacle’s collar and hung her leash on the back of the cupboard door.
‘But a happy release, son, a happy release from all her suffering.’ Again her tears sprang. ‘Where’s Olly?’ She looked over his shoulder and then up the stairs.
‘In his room.’
‘Shall I go up?’ she asked, grasping at the neck of her T-shirt, flustered. ‘He might like to talk to his nan or just want a big old cuddle.’
‘I think just leave him, actually, Mum. He’ll know you’re here and he’ll come down if he wants some company.’
‘Poor little lamb. My heart is breaking for him,’ she murmured. ‘How was Dora? Was Diane with her?’
‘Dora was . . .’ He struggled to find the words to adequately describe his mother-in-law’s sense of loss, certain only that it was similar to his own. ‘She was as you’d expect, and, yes, Di was with her.’
‘Poor woman. Poor, poor woman.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s every mother’s worst nightmare. I’ve written to her and will pop the letter through her door.’ She mopped her tears.
He felt ill equipped to deal with his mum’s woe, barely knowing how to handle his own. He pointed out of the front door.
‘I’m just going to get milk, actually. We’ve run out.’
‘Milk? Don’t be daft! You can’t go out for milk!’ His mum stood back, shocked.
‘Why can’t I?’
‘Because you have to stay in. You have to stay in quietly and sit with the curtains drawn.’
He felt the inappropriate burble of laughter leave his mouth. ‘I have to stay in?’
‘Yes, Nicky! Your wife has just passed away.’
You don’t need to tell me that! I know it! I know it! I know it!
His mum continued. ‘And you don’t want to be seen gallivanting up to the shop as if nothing is amiss. What would everyone think?’
‘Christ, Mum, I wasn’t planning on gallivanting anywhere, and secondly, my whole world is amiss and it has been for the last few months.’
‘I know that, love, I know,’ she whispered.
He sat back down on the bottom stair and ran his hand over the stack of envelopes. The truth was he had been grieving for Kerry for a long time. This might be the first terrible shock to the community, and all those who heard the news whispered at the bus stop, canteen or corner shop this morning, but to him it was, in fact, the last.
It was the end of a horrible chapter that had drained him of all energy and happiness. He had over the past weeks managed to haul himself to the shop on many a day, dropped Oliver at school or had taken Treacle for a wee, whilst barely able to put one foot in front of the other with exhaustion, digging deep to find a smile and a nod for his neighbours, who wanted to pass the time of day, talking about football or the weather while his nerves and heart were shredded. And right now all he wanted was a cup of bloody tea.
‘I’ll go and get the milk.’ Without further discussion his mum bustled out, shutting the front door firmly behind her. Treacle trotted over the laminate floor and paced back and forth, as she had over the last few weeks, looking for the woman who always had a treat, a kind word and a soft palm held out in readiness to pet her.
The dog barked and then whined. Nick clicked his fingers and pulled her close to him, running the flat of his hand over her flank. ‘I know, girl, I know.’
‘Is Nan here?’ Oliver asked as he came down the stairs.
‘She’s just gone for milk.’
‘Hello, Treacle, hello, girl!’ Oliver stepped over him and dropped down into the hallway, holding their family pet close to his chest and bending with his head close to hers. Nick had smelled the whiff of a teenage body in want of a good wash with soap, but was again unsure of the right thing to do or say, whether to nag him over something as irrelevant as personal hygiene when his mum had just passed was a step too far. There were lots of things he didn’t know, and the only person he would be comfortable asking was Kerry.
‘I was going to go to the shop, but Nan said I had to stay inside.’ He pulled a face.
‘Why do you have to stay inside?’ Oliver looked up briefly.
‘I don’t rightly know.’ He ran his hand over his stubbled chin. ‘I think she thought it was not the done thing to go out today.’
‘As long as I can go out next Thursday – my results are coming out.’
‘I know.’ He looked at the boy and wondered how it was that he had not mentioned his mum, not once. Should he start the conversation?
Don’t force it, love. He’ll talk when he’s good and ready . . .
He heard her voice in his ear loud and clear and even gave a small nod to show he understood.
‘How are you feeling about your results?’ He hoped this was a safe topic.
Oliver shrugged. ‘Don’t know, really. Not much I can do about them now, is there?’
‘Guess not.’
‘Just hope I’ve done enough to get into Birmingham.’
‘Birmingham sounds like a long way away.’ He felt the flare of emotion at the prospect of being here in the house without Kerry and without Oliver.
‘Everywhere is a long way away from Burston.’ He continued to stroke Treacle.
‘Good point. And you know, if you don’t like it there, you can always come home.’
‘I’ve got to get in first, Dad. Business Studies is a popular course, so I need the grades.’
‘I know, but I’m just saying, university is all well and good, but it isn’t the only way to make a life for yourself,’ Nick lied, hoping his words might provide the salve to his son’s hurt should he not make the grades, for he fervently believed that higher education, the thing which circumstances had denied him, was indeed the way to make a wonderful life.
Oliver nodded, and his next words when they came, so matter-of-factly spoken, took the breath from Nick’s throat and left him a little winded.
‘When will the funeral be, d’you think?’
The funeral . . . the funeral . . . any old funeral, not ‘my mum’s funeral’. How can you ask so casually when the very idea of it cuts me in two!
‘Well’ – Nick swallowed – ‘I need to go and see Wainwright’s today and sort it all out, but I think it’ll be next week.’
‘Next week.’ Oliver nodded calmly. ‘The same people who did Grandad’s?’
‘Yes, same people who do everyone’s around here.’
Oliver stood. ‘And you went to school with Michael Wainwright?’
‘Yes, he was in our class. He knew your mum and that helped when we went to see him, before’ – he coughed – ‘a while before. She made plans to make sure it was as easy as possible for us now.’