Second Chance by Sian James

to hospital later that day and died the next morning.
    My mother was of course, distraught; for several days keeping to her bed and refusing to eat, refusing even to discuss her little windfall. (What did we do, eventually, with that fifty pounds? I can’t remember.)
    In the local paper, Mr and Mrs Leslie Bevan were named as chief mourners. ‘Great Heavens,’ my mother said, when I read her the account, ‘I didn’t know he had a wife. Mrs Bevan told me everything, but she never told me that. I wish I’d pulled myself together and gone to the funeral so that I could have seen her. Leslie was such a lovely, kind gentleman, I’d have really liked to meet his wife.’
    The house was sold soon afterwards to a local doctor who begged my mother to carry on working for him and his wife. She did. Two hours a day at a much better wage than she’d got from Mrs Bevan. But they never took over Mrs Bevan’s place in her affection. It was Mrs Bevan she still talked about, Mrs Bevan she still loved.
    And now my mother was also dead. I walked the rest of the way home very slowly.
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    There was a knock on the door while I was unpacking the shopping later. The man in the doorway was a stranger, but I immediately knew who it was.
    â€˜George Williams,’ he said. We shook hands. I invited him in.
    He was short and stocky; earth-coloured face and a thatch of white hair.
    â€˜Please sit down. I’ll make a cup of tea.’
    I was beginning to understand the social relevance of the cup of tea. It might not be needed by anyone or particularly wanted, but as well as being a gesture of good will, making it gave you a moment to collect yourself. It suddenly seemed crucial to our civilisation.
    â€˜I’m pleased to meet you at last,’ I said when I got back to the living room.
    He looked me up and down. ‘Likewise,’ he said.
    I poured out a cup of tea and passed it to him. He took a spoonful of sugar and stirred it vigorously. Sad time,’ he said, still stirring.
    â€˜Sad time for both of us,’ I said.
    He acknowledged it with a slight nod of the head. He refused a digestive biscuit, but drank his tea calmly and without hurry. I wondered whether to ask him when he’d last seen my mother, but decided it might upset him.
    â€˜Did you have any inkling that she was ill?’ I asked at last.
    He thought about the question for what seemed a full minute, then very carefully put his cup back on the saucer and got to his feet. ‘I knew she was feeling nervous,’ he said at last. ‘I knew she was nervous about the wedding, but her death was a terrible shock.’
    â€˜I’m so sorry,’ I murmured. Tears filled my eyes again as I squeezed his hands.
    She hadn’t, of course, mentioned the wedding – or him – to me, but I hoped I hadn’t shown any surprise. ‘I’ll see you at the funeral,’ I said. ‘And I hope you’ll sit with me in the front pew.’
    When he’d gone I felt quite light-headed and though it was still only five o’clock, started on the whisky.
    Some time later, the phone rang. It was Paul. He was sorry he hadn’t managed to ring before, but Annabel was in serious trouble. He paused, expecting me to question him, but I didn’t. I didn’t at all want to know about Annabel’s problems, having plenty of my own. ‘I think she’s being charged with manslaughter,’ he said. ‘One of her friends died as a result of taking Ecstasy or one of these other things, and she’s being accused of selling it to her. It’s a lie, of course. It was some young chap from the town who’d sold the stuff, but she happened to be carrying one or two of the tablets in her bra and...’
    I took a deep breath. ‘Try to stay calm,’ I said. ‘The police have to pounce on someone so that people know they’re taking it seriously, but they come to their senses after a