The cupboard on the left didn’t open. She presumed the wood had swelled so she tugged the handle as much as she dared before it came off, then she realised it was locked. Alex’s bunch of keys still hung on the hook by the door, minus the goldfish keyring that she now used. They’d been in the bag of effects which she’d been given at the hospital, though she hadn’t a clue then what two of the keys were for: one tiny, the other with a long shaft and a pronounced bit – an old-fashioned key, the metal rusting in places. The small key worked in the desk lock, at least it did when impatience lent weight to her hand.
The hanging files inside were mostly empty except for an A4 pad with some more figures, more workings-out. There was a folder full of receipts and bills stretching back three years at least: the TV licence, his passport and, clipped together, MOT certificates and other paperwork pertaining to his car. This was what she needed. She’d decided to sell Alex’s pride and joy, his red MR2. She didn’t like to drive it, having outgrown gears a couple of years ago, but also she’d never been that keen on being a passenger in it either as Alex was overtaken by a boy-racer spirit as soon as he sat in it and always drove it too fast.
The only other file present was labelled ‘personal finances’. Laurie opened it and found an old building society passbook for an account which had been closed and the balance of six thousand and twenty pounds withdrawn in cash in January. There were all Alex’s Visa bills going back for three years. She flicked briefly through the ones at the top of the pile, registered Zorba’s on there: the Greek restaurant where they’d gone with Jefferson and Naomi last October, and The Southlea Hotel, where they’d stayed early last November in Whitby with Meredith and Brendan for the night. He’d spent a lot of money at Bird and Bryant, the menswear shop in Leeds which he favoured. His balance was cleared every month.
There was an ordered file of his bank statements but the dates stopped after last August. It was odd because Alex usually kept paperwork far longer than he needed to, he had a thing about keeping records, and this account was active until he died; it was the one his salary was paid into by BACS. So where were the rest of the statements? Even if the bank had gone paperless, he would have run them off and kept them here because that’s what Alex did. She looked again, but they weren’t there.
At the bottom of the drawer was a travel brochure for ‘Figurehead Winter Cruises’ which surprised her because Alex wasn’t the cruising type. He’d laughed at her when she’d suggested they go on a cruise to see the Northern Lights, something she had always wanted to do; said that she had more chance of flying to the moon without a rocket than getting him on a ship. Meredith and Brendan liked cruising. They’d clocked up quite a lot of them. That put Alex off for a start, the prospect of ending up trapped for a fortnight with people like his parents in full-showing-off mode, telling all and sundry how big their suite was and that this was their zillionth time on board and they were now on the titanium tier, or whatever it was that enabled them to have dinner with the captain and fifteen per cent off purchases in the shops. She flicked through it and stopped when she noticed the names ‘Mr and Mrs Wilder’ scribbled on the top of a page for a cruise the following year. Alex’s handwriting. A Valentine’s cruise; the ship would moor in Alta on 14 February to ‘Hunt for the Northern Lights’.
He’d been planning to take her on one as his wife. Or maybe he was planning for them to get married on board. Why else would he have kept the brochure in a locked drawer? Joy and sadness came at her in an equal rush. And relief, no more than a breath behind them.
Daily Trumpet Meet-Ups
Women seeking Men
Mary, 63, slightly overweight, non-smoker, seeks cuddly man to shave the enjoyable things in life.
Sandra, 58, not fussy but WLTM man between 6ft and 6ft 5, blonde or fair hair, arm tattoos only and piercings in ears only (one per ear). No facial hair, or groomed eyebrows, to weigh no more than fifteen stone. Other than that anything goes. Call me.
Iris, 67, single and sad after losing husband of forty years. Life is so lovely without him, looking for man to fill the hole he no longer occupies.
Denise, 41, medium build and height, likes walks along the beach, meals out, and the occasional drunk to round off a perfect evening.
Men Seeking Women
Barry, 44, not great looking, not rich, not got a posh car or high-flying job but I am a hug-loving, genital giant.
Trucker Dan, 55, fed-up of time-wasters, big-hearted, looking for his foul mate.
Steve, 65, looking for new lady to treat, take out for meals, buy flowers for. Solvent thanks to a thirty-year successful widow-cleaning business.
Dermot, 47, seeks flirty and dirty lady for sexy times and no strings fun. Tall, dank and handsome, one hair and teeth.
Chapter 14
4 September
Pete was glad to get back to work after his days off. When Tara was alive, he always enjoyed the time at home pottering about in the garden, mending things, building, painting. Subconsciously, he realised he was nest-building for the family they’d planned on having. When they first met, she’d wanted to get pregnant straight away and it had been him who’d talked her into having some time to themselves as newly-weds. As if the idea was perched on a see-saw, the more he softened to it, the more she suggested they wait. Until she’d climbed up a few more rungs of her career ladder, she said; until they were older, until they could afford it. The excuses mutated and grew and she kept taking the pill. He hadn’t the energy or inclination for doing anything in the house now other than sleeping and eating in it. What was the point? The sooner he and Pong moved, the better.
He was making himself a cup of tea in the kitchen at the end of his shift, lost in thoughts of what area of town he would like to move to, when he felt a poke in the back.
‘Oh go on then, if you’re asking,’ said Sal.
‘You’ve got great timing.’ Pete grinned, reaching for her ‘World’s Best Auntie’ mug from the shelf and another teabag.
‘Two sugars and don’t stir it. I like that hit of sweetness at the end,’ she instructed.
‘You’ll get what you’re given.’
‘How come you’re hanging about here and not going ho— . . . forget that.’ Sal growled at her clumsiness. ‘Stupid twat.’
‘Me or you?’ said Pete, bringing the two mugs over to the table where Sal was now sitting.
‘Me. On this occasion.’
Pete sat down. ‘Don’t worry, Sal. The last thing I want is for you all to filter everything that comes out of your mouths.’
He’d said much the same to Andy that morning after he’d apologised for telling them how the builders doing his extension had turned the house into a car crash.
‘It’s amazing how many things you say without really thinking about them,’ said Sal. ‘Like Andy this morning. He felt shit about the builders’ clanger.’
‘I don’t want to impact on everyone’s mood. I feel bad that people have been pussyfooting around me for so long.’
Sal sighed. ‘We’re mates just looking out for each other, who care about you.’