glancing uneasily from side to side as if there might be a hidden sniper lurking on the other side of the cherry tree. He grabs the Pyrex dish and slams the door shut behind him. He puts the dish next to the others and wearily reads the note on the top. “Okay, Freddie, we’ve got a new one here. And this one is from Tash, Ludo’s mummy. That makes it her second in three days. This one is, er, Bolognese sauce.” He looks perplexed. “Goes well with the custard pudding, she says. What custard pudding? Oh, right. Here.” He peels foil off another package.
Freddie makes a gagging noise and puts his fingers down his throat.
“Got any ideas, Fred?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Ping Pong.”
“Freddie, my son, your mind is dark.” He raised his hand into a high five. “You are a genius.”
Freddie grins. It’s almost a proper beam. Like he used to do all the time. I’m amazed that he can still smile like this, awed at how resilient he is. He opens the back door. “Here, Ping Pong, here, pussy, pussy! Dinnertime.”
Later, as the evening falls harder and colder—icicles are hanging like frozen tears from the windowpanes by nine p.m.—I curl into Ollie’s old black Converse trainers. They are contained and safe and smell reassuringly of Ollie. I don’t want to smell his aftershave, or the washing liquid on his clothes, or his dry-skin shampoo. I wantthe meaty essence of him, the expelled bodily odors, the flakes of skin, the hot stink of his maleness. I’d actually hang out in his armpit if I could, but I fear this might make him itch.
It’s nine thirty now. Ping Pong’s paw prints polka across the snow on the deck. There are bald patches on our little scrap of lawn where Freddie and Ollie have scooped up snowballs in cold, red hands and tossed them at each other. In the right-hand corner of the garden, beneath the plum tree that bears the world’s tartest, most inedible plums, there is a surprised-looking snowman, a muddy parsnip for a nose, his eyes, withered conkers carefully kept by Freddie the previous autumn. Although the house is a mess, it is warm—a veritable sauna in the trainer actually. Ollie has lit a homey fire in the sitting room fireplace. Making fires is the one domestic thing Ollie’s always been good at, having enough of a Bear Grylls bushcraft whiff about it to appeal to him, unlike cleaning the roasting pan. (You never see Bear Grylls washing up his wild fungi cooking pans in the woods, do you? Bet he’s got some poor assistant doing that. Bet she’s female.)
They are sitting beside the fire now, Freddie curled inside Ollie’s knees, resting his head against his chest, listening to the thumpity-thump of his heart, the exact same position I used to snuggle into on winter nights. Freddie’s lids are beginning to droop. Ollie strokes his soft curls off his forehead with the plane of his palm. The fire spits and crackles. Its heat gives their faces a healthy glow and hides the puddles of grief beneath Ollie’s eyes. They look too beautiful for words. And I wonder why I was ever, ever restless in those last few months of my life? What was I hunkering after exactly, if
not
this? Jenny was right. Isn’t she always right? About other people’s lives, at least.
Thing is, how the hell was I to know that I’d end up as roadkill on Regent Street? If one’s demise could be predicted more accurately—“You’re unlikely to last much past Christmas; make it agood one, Mrs. Brady”—then at least I could have
planned
. Made an imminent to-do list. A memory box. I would have left Ollie final instructions—a domestic kick-the-bucket list—with relevant phone numbers and information. (Remember my mother’s birthday. Take Freddie to the dentist every six months. Do not leave woolens out because of moths. Feed. The. Cat.) And, more than this, much more than this, I would have had a chance to appreciate what I had. Take stock of my lovely life. What’s that quote? “I had such a lovely
Freddie makes a gagging noise and puts his fingers down his throat.
“Got any ideas, Fred?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Ping Pong.”
“Freddie, my son, your mind is dark.” He raised his hand into a high five. “You are a genius.”
Freddie grins. It’s almost a proper beam. Like he used to do all the time. I’m amazed that he can still smile like this, awed at how resilient he is. He opens the back door. “Here, Ping Pong, here, pussy, pussy! Dinnertime.”
Later, as the evening falls harder and colder—icicles are hanging like frozen tears from the windowpanes by nine p.m.—I curl into Ollie’s old black Converse trainers. They are contained and safe and smell reassuringly of Ollie. I don’t want to smell his aftershave, or the washing liquid on his clothes, or his dry-skin shampoo. I wantthe meaty essence of him, the expelled bodily odors, the flakes of skin, the hot stink of his maleness. I’d actually hang out in his armpit if I could, but I fear this might make him itch.
It’s nine thirty now. Ping Pong’s paw prints polka across the snow on the deck. There are bald patches on our little scrap of lawn where Freddie and Ollie have scooped up snowballs in cold, red hands and tossed them at each other. In the right-hand corner of the garden, beneath the plum tree that bears the world’s tartest, most inedible plums, there is a surprised-looking snowman, a muddy parsnip for a nose, his eyes, withered conkers carefully kept by Freddie the previous autumn. Although the house is a mess, it is warm—a veritable sauna in the trainer actually. Ollie has lit a homey fire in the sitting room fireplace. Making fires is the one domestic thing Ollie’s always been good at, having enough of a Bear Grylls bushcraft whiff about it to appeal to him, unlike cleaning the roasting pan. (You never see Bear Grylls washing up his wild fungi cooking pans in the woods, do you? Bet he’s got some poor assistant doing that. Bet she’s female.)
They are sitting beside the fire now, Freddie curled inside Ollie’s knees, resting his head against his chest, listening to the thumpity-thump of his heart, the exact same position I used to snuggle into on winter nights. Freddie’s lids are beginning to droop. Ollie strokes his soft curls off his forehead with the plane of his palm. The fire spits and crackles. Its heat gives their faces a healthy glow and hides the puddles of grief beneath Ollie’s eyes. They look too beautiful for words. And I wonder why I was ever, ever restless in those last few months of my life? What was I hunkering after exactly, if
not
this? Jenny was right. Isn’t she always right? About other people’s lives, at least.
Thing is, how the hell was I to know that I’d end up as roadkill on Regent Street? If one’s demise could be predicted more accurately—“You’re unlikely to last much past Christmas; make it agood one, Mrs. Brady”—then at least I could have
planned
. Made an imminent to-do list. A memory box. I would have left Ollie final instructions—a domestic kick-the-bucket list—with relevant phone numbers and information. (Remember my mother’s birthday. Take Freddie to the dentist every six months. Do not leave woolens out because of moths. Feed. The. Cat.) And, more than this, much more than this, I would have had a chance to appreciate what I had. Take stock of my lovely life. What’s that quote? “I had such a lovely
Similar Books
