Grief Is a Hungry Business & Other Short Stories Page 3

  As a young child, Delia had rummaged through the chest her ma kept at the foot of the bed. Underneath a pile of well-fingered photos and letters, she’d found the most beautiful book she’d ever seen. It was small, with a padded purple cover and onionskin pages, and the print was so tiny it was difficult to read. She was squinting at it when Ma came in.

  “Don’t let your dad see you looking at that,” Ma said, glancing back at the door, as if she were scared Dad were behind her. “If he thinks I’m teaching you the Word, he’ll beat it out of both of us.” Delia wondered what word she was talking about—there were so many in the book—but before she could ask, Ma snatched it away from her and placed it back under the photos and letters. Delia never saw the little book again, and neither of them mentioned the incident.

  The priest moved aside, and a man of indeterminate age approached the lectern. Delia guessed it was one of Allan’s sons, probably the eldest.

  “Thank you all for coming today to support my mother and the rest of our family,” the man said. “As you know, we’re a close family, and Dad was a wonderful husband to Mother, a devoted father to Brian and me, and a loving grandparent to our children. He was the head of the household, a superb provider, a mentor and friend, a father who would help with your homework and kick a ball around with you. He worked hard at the bank yet he was always home when it was bedtime. He learnt his values early from his own parents.”

  Delia closed her eyes, only half listening to the eulogy, wondering what life would have been like if she had married Allan instead of Dan.

  She’d met Dan at a dance when she was eighteen. He’d asked her to dance and manoeuvred her expertly across the floor, holding her close and protectively. He was good-looking and confident, and she was smitten.

  Three months later she broke the news to her parents.

  “Pregnant, my girl?” shouted her dad, his face staining an alarming shade of purple. “That bastard…I’ll kill him. I swear I will.” Dad grabbed his coat and stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

  Three days later, with little ceremony, she and Dan were married at the local registry office. The awkward ceremony was a portent of things to come. Life was hard with Dan, devoid of luxuries and niceties. He was a heavy drinker who preferred to forget he was married, and Delia spent many nights lying in bed crying, wondering when, or if, he’d come home. Sometimes he’d arrive home early in the morning, a cheerful smile on his face, while she felt as if she were dying inside.

  Delia’s head lurched forward, and she opened her eyes, realising she’d been at the point of dropping off to sleep. It would be embarrassing to pitch into the pew in front of her. She pinched the tender skin at the base of her neck. Parts of the eulogy penetrated her consciousness, but she found it hard to concentrate. “…large, loving family…Allenby School…blue at Oxford…merchant banking at Barings…marriage to Joyce…sons…pillar of the community.” She’d heard as much as she needed to know.

  Listening to Allan’s son deliver the eulogy, she felt stirrings of her long-held resentment that her boys hadn’t had the benefit of a father who’d been there for them. Dan had left when the boys were eight and ten. He said he’d fallen in love, and he delighted in telling her this was the first time he’d ever truly been in love. It cut Delia to her core. Despite everything, however, she had still loved him.

  After Dan left, she had learned to toughen up. Raising two boys alone had been difficult, but they were grown now—grown and gone. As for her life, it was still tough. What little money she had hardly covered the necessities. But somehow she got by, on luck, on charity, but mostly on her wits.

  A crescendo of music filled the church, but the words were foreign to her. She knew it was opera, and it was haunting, reminding her that life’s beauty and pain are indelibly entwined. Had this piece been one of Allan’s favourites?

  She could see by looking around the church that Allan had been much loved. Tears tracked down the faces of mourners; handkerchiefs dabbed at glistening eyes; throats were cleared, and noses were blown. Such unbridled grief was raw and ugly and at odds with the beauty of the building—the warm mellow sandstone, the lovely patina of the pews and altar, the soaring clerestory. Light streamed through the window above in a kaleidoscope of colours, melding into an unconventional rainbow. Purple, turquoise, gold, crimson and green lit the apse and drew all eyes away from the coffin, providing a respite from the dark tones of grief. Just for a moment.

  Delia’s thoughts turned to Allan’s wife, Joyce. How much pain was she feeling? Delia knew about grief. The sharp edges of loneliness and despair hung like a cloak yet were too heavy to discard. Especially in the early hours of the morning, when it was easy to forget the man you loved wasn’t lying warm beside you, smiling and enveloping you as day crept into his body. It hurt in a way she couldn’t have imagined before her experiences with Dan, and she felt a strange mixture of pity and jealousy. Joyce had enjoyed the life she would have chosen, had she been given the chance.

  The service ended, and the pallbearers moved back towards the casket. The congregation stood in unison. There was a brief moment of silence, save for muffled sobbing from the front. This part was the hardest, as Allan was carried to the hearse for his journey to the crematorium. Not wanting to draw attention to herself, Delia tried be dispassionate, yet through eyes damp with tears, she watched the procession file past. Joyce was supported by two younger women, whose grief seemed less consuming than hers. Where they her daughters-in-law? As they moved past, Delia smelled lavender mingled with warmer, exotic notes, defining the personalities and generations wearing them. She realised Joyce would be enveloped by the strength and fortitude of these young women and her sons, and one day the world would be a happy, secure place for her again.

  Not so for Delia. She exhaled between her teeth, wishing her life had been easier. She hadn’t enjoyed the luxury of a husband who had stayed with her for life, to cherish and support her, laugh with her, raise children with her, leave her knowing she’d been loved.

  Outside, back in the sunlight, Allan’s family and friends gathered around the hearse to pay their respects and comfort Joyce. Delia kept her distance, watching the crowd. As the hearse moved away, the mourners turned back towards the church. She attached herself to a knot of people making their way towards the reception area. The clink of teacups and the aroma of freshly baked scones and sausage rolls came as a welcome relief. It was nearly three o’clock and time for a cup of tea and a bite to eat, and then she would leave as she had arrived, unnoticed.

  As Delia poured fragrant Earl Grey into a bone-china cup, she appraised the spread with a practised eye. Dainty sandwiches, miniature pies, slices of sticky chocolate cake, steaming scones bursting with currants, bowls of clotted cream and jam. She moved around the table, trying this and that before piling her plate high.

  “Hello, I’m Ron,” said a voice at her shoulder. She turned, startled, and put down the overflowing plate. “Joyce’s cousin,” the man continued. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

  “No, we haven’t. I’m Delia. Beautiful service, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, Joyce planned it according to Allan’s wishes. The Puccini was particularly moving, don’t you think?” Ron didn’t pause for her answer. “Are you a friend of Joyce’s?”

  Delia’s eyes darted to the left. “No, I worked with Allan many years ago.” She took a breath, trying to remember the name of the bank. “At Barclays.” Thank God she’d listened to the eulogy. “I haven’t seen him for years, but he was good to me, and when I saw the notice in the paper, I decided to come and pay my respects.”

  Ron regarded her quizzically. “Barclays? Don’t you mean Barings?”

  Had he believed her? She tried to appear unruffled, but her cheeks were burning.

  “Ah, there’s Joyce now. Do come over and have a word.” Ron put his hand under her elbow and propelled her towards Joyce.

  Her heart pounded, and her hand shook. W
hat would she say to her? What would she say if Joyce asked about her association with Allan? Surely Joyce would guess the truth.

  Her cup rattled, and hot tea splashed over her. Blast, it was on her jacket, the only decent piece of clothing she owned, and she couldn’t afford to send it to the cleaner’s.

  “Ron, go ahead. I’ll join you in a minute,” she said. She headed towards the ladies’ room. Turning slightly, she saw Ron speak to Joyce. When he pointed in Delia’s direction, Joyce’s gaze settled on her. Delia decided the jacket could wait until later. Changing tack, she hurried outside, aware of Joyce watching her.

  Later that afternoon, sitting on the number-four bus, Delia reflected that she’d had a lucky escape but acknowledged questions would plague Joyce. She’d wonder who the woman was who told Ron she’d worked with Allan and who quickly disappeared without even a word of condolence. Why had Allan never mentioned her? Why did she come to the funeral when she hadn’t seen Allan for years? Delia felt guilty that these questions would haunt Joyce and that answers would elude her.

  Even after so many years, she wasn’t good at this. She stared out the bus window, feeling ashamed of her behaviour, but knew there was no point in regrets. She pulled her newspaper from her handbag and read the obituary notice she’d circled earlier. It was important to memorise the details, the way she always did. Jean Brompton, beloved wife of Alf….

  Delia sighed a small sigh of resignation. She had another funeral to attend tomorrow. Another funeral, in a different church, on the other side of town. It was safer that way. Another family, another life she’d pretend to have touched. Another afternoon tea. But tomorrow she’d make sure, damn sure, that she ate some of it before leaving. After all, the afternoon tea was what she was there for. Grief is a hungry business.

  Other Books by Di Jones

  Transplanting Holly Oakwood

  Finding her lover in bed with her best friend was the worst thing ever, but leaving London for Los Angeles pushed trouble to a whole new level.

  Holly Oakwood’s cosy life is shattered when her boyfriend has an affair with her best friend. Determined to mend her broken heart by throwing herself into her career, but unable to hide her contempt for her new boss, she loses her job as well.

  She lands a dream job in a Consulate in LA, but that’s when her troubles really begin. She struggles to settle, loneliness begins to bite, and everyone around her is thin and shallow. She loses her confidence, makes a fool of herself once too often, and her new boss hates her. Can she salvage anything from the train wreck of her new life, or should she return to England?

  What ensues is a comically entertaining series of events that catapult Holly into new friendships, the promise of romance and the realization that home is where the heart is.

  Check out Di’s Pinterest board for Transplanting Holly Oakwood

  Turn the page to read the opening chapter of Transplanting Holly Oakwood:

  ONE

  Holly

  Holly sat in the middle of a privet hedge outside her best friend’s apartment, planning her murder. She’d been there for an hour, her limbs bent like paperclips. She rubbed her arms where the hedge had scratched her and twisted to see a spider dangling beside her. Why hadn’t she worn long sleeves for heaven’s sake? She shifted, crouched back on her heels and peered up at the darkening sky. The air was dank and chilly and the smell of privet pungent in her nostrils. This vigil wasn’t the smartest thing she’d ever done, but she had to find out if her suspicions were correct.

  A car pulled up. She sank back into the hedge, holding her breath and watching as a familiar figure crossed the road, strode down the path whistling, and let himself into the building.

  Her breath came out in a rush. Her fingers tightened around the branch above her and it snapped, throwing her off balance. She rolled onto the ground and pressed her face to the grass, trying not to sob. Tom was supposed to be in New York, not here in Maida Vale.

  She needed to be sure. After thirty minutes she clambered out, certain Tom wasn’t coming back. Cautiously she surveyed her surroundings, her breath whistling between her teeth. She shook out the kinks in her cramped limbs and through a haze of pain, disbelief and anger, reached the front door of the building.

  What was Sonia’s security code? She knew it, of course she knew it – the exchange of security codes was as natural to their friendship as the secrets they shared. Her fingers fumbled on the cool smooth metal but eventually they remembered the pattern, and the door clicked open. She pushed it wide and stumbled into the foyer.

  She couldn’t wait for the lift and ran up the stairs without pausing. Outside her friend’s door she wavered. Would her perfect life change irrevocably if she knocked? She thought of her less than happy single days before she met Tom. But she had to know, had to be sure. She raised her hand, then tapped on the door.

  No answer. She knocked again.

  “Who’s there?”

  She opened her mouth to tell Sonia it was her, but as the words of greeting bubbled in her throat, she clenched her teeth, deciding it was better to retain the element of surprise. Her hand hovered above the polished wood of the door, then she brought her knuckles down on the unyielding surface and rapped again.

  “Who’s there?”

  A key scraped in the lock, the door opened, and Sonia stood in front of her. She’d never seen her friend look more beautiful. Her hair was dishevelled and her skin radiant and glowing, burnished with a fine mist of perspiration. Her eyes were soft and warm, but a split second later they widened in alarm.

  “Holly.” Sonia’s fingers fluttered to her mouth, then down to the silk of her robe, which she tried to tighten around her. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “Thought I’d drop round and see what you’re up to.” She struggled to keep her voice light, but could hear the edge of panic creeping into it. “Fancy a drink at the wine bar down the road?”

  Sonia leant against the door. “It’s not convenient right now.”

  “I’ll only come in for a minute then.”

  “No.”

  Sonia’s refusal sharpened Holly’s resolve. She twisted with speed and grace, and in one fluid movement lined her shoulder to the door and threw her seventy five kilos against it. It yielded and she slid her foot behind it, levering Sonia off balance.

  “Stop,” said Sonia, in a voice as sharp as new scissors. “You can’t barge in here.” Her perfume hung between them; exotic, heavy and insidious.

  “Have you got a man here?”

  “None of your business.” Sonia’s chin lifted in defiance.

  “Looks like it,” she said, as she moved into the living room. Clothes were scattered across the floor.

  “Please leave. Now.” Sonia’s voice was shrill, the expression in her eyes frantic. Her mouth settled into a pencil straight line.

  Holly bent down to the carpet and picked up a cabled fishermen’s jersey, which Tom had been wearing when he came into the building. It was tangled with a lacy white push up bra. She shook the bra loose, then held the jersey to her nose and inhaled the familiar scent.

  “I bought this for Tom’s birthday,” she said reproachfully.

  As Sonia stared at her slack-jawed, an irresistible impulse propelled Holly across the living room and down the passage. With white hot hands she opened the door to the bedroom and strode in.

  Tom lay on Sonia’s bed. His damp skin shone in the lamplight and his eyes were closed, a smile playing on the corners of his mouth. One arm was propped behind his head, his other hand was stroking his erection.

  “Come here, darling, this won’t keep,” he said.

  She swallowed, then opened her mouth, but no words came.

  Tom’s strokes quickened, and then, encountering silence, he opened one eye.

  “Jesus H. Christ!” He sat up in alarm, his erection disappearing with his smile. “Good God, Holly, what are you doing here?” His cheeks blanched, his eyes widened to saucers, and t
he smell of fear and betrayal oozed from his pores.

  Her soul drifted from the shrunken husk of her body and looked down at the scene dispassionately. It had never occurred to her before how quickly an erect penis could deflate, like a snail retracting into its shell when it senses danger.

  Seconds later the corners of her mouth curled at the absurdity of the situation, and a strangled giggle escaped. Was this funny, was she going mad, or in shock? Her head was spinning, blood pounded in her veins, and bile burned the back of her throat.

  “Why are you laughing?” Tom’s voice was incredulous, petulant.

  She ignored Tom and spoke to Sonia. “You bitch. I thought you were my friend.”

  Sonia didn’t answer.

  “Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”

  “We love each other,” said Sonia at last. “Always have done.”

  “Always? Pity you didn’t decide that before you introduced him to me.”

  “We didn’t realise.” Sonia looked to Tom, but he shook his head. “I don’t know what to say,” said Sonia nervously, with no hint of regret or apology.

  “I want to know how long this has been going on.” Holly’s voice was rising by degrees. “How long have you been shagging my boyfriend?”

  “There’s no point in this,” said Tom. “We’ll talk later.” He swung his legs off the side of the bed and pulled the sheet around him.

  “Later? What’s that supposed to mean?”