Honestly, Paula really thought by the time she was sixty-one, she’d have learned a thing or two about having a normal conversation. But – standing here in her outdated, beige-coloured kitchen – she’s realising now that she doesn’t have a clue. How does one even begin to handle something like this?
She’s on the phone – the landline – and staring at a suspicious patch on the ceiling in the corner. Is it a new leak coming through from the upstairs bathroom, or is it a shadow? She can’t tell.
‘. . . we know it must be a shock . . .’ the man is saying down the line and his voice sounds awfully far away. ‘. . . it’s been registered with the local authorities here, and we’ll arrange for the paperwork, including a death certificate to be sent to you, of course . . .’
She wants to turn on the overhead light so she can have a proper look at that corner – the lamp isn’t any use at all – but the phone cord doesn’t stretch to the switch by the door. Tilly was probably right all those years ago, when she said they should get a cordless phone, but they were so expensive at the time. These days, of course, her daughter thinks it’s absurd she and John even have a landline at all. But look here, isn’t she using it right now?
‘. . . repatriation of the body is expensive, I’m afraid, but of course we’ll make arrangements, if you’d like. It’s possible his travel insurance may cover it.’ The man pauses. ‘Do you happen to know if he had any?’
Paula feels a familiar stab of fear at the mention of money. She shakes her head, then remembers he can’t see her. ‘I don’t know,’ she says simply.
‘Sorry to ask this . . .’ The man sounds awkward, and it is somehow more endearing in his light Austrian accent. ‘But do you know if John had a . . . er, preference about his . . . remains? It is sometimes a more straightforward option to have the body – um, your loved one – cremated at a local crematorium and then transported back.’
This is, at last, something Paula can help with. She knows the answer to this one because John was always terribly clear. ‘He did want to be cremated, yes!’ she relays eagerly. ‘He told me he didn’t like the idea of his body being eaten by worms. He said that several times.’
There is a shuffling noise at the other end of the line and Paula wonders if she’s said the wrong thing. Do people whose husbands have just died not talk about the body being eaten by worms? Has she messed up again?
‘. . . and of course, there will be more documents for you . . .’ The man has resumed talking, and Paula returns her gaze to the ceiling stain – or shadow, who knows? ‘. . . and I’ll get that over to you as soon as possible, so you can apply for a Consular Death Registration in England. You can also contact the British Consulate if you would prefer a UK death certificate . . .’
‘Gosh,’ says Paula, because the idea of contacting the British Consulate sounds so grand. So unlike anything she’s ever had to do before. But then, this has never happened before. Obviously.
‘. . . and again, Mrs Sheldon, our most sincere condolences, as well as our deepest apologies it took us a few days to identify him and locate you . . .’
‘Don’t worry!’ she says nicely, because it makes her uncomfortable when people apologise.
They say their goodbyes and hang up. Paula stares at the ceiling. Then back down at the phone in her hand.
Her husband of more than thirty years is dead. That’s what the nice man with the nice accent said. John was in an accident; his car went off the road; it would’ve been very quick for him.
For John, she means, not for the nice man.
Paula wonders if she should’ve known something had happened. You hear about wives who somehow, intuitively knew something terrible had befallen their loved ones. Paula read something recently on Facebook about a woman who’d fainted at precisely 3.46 p.m., later discovering her husband had collapsed at his desk and died from a coronary at exactly that time.
Should she have known?
It had been a few days since Paula had heard from her husband. But that wasn’t particularly unusual when he went to one of these work conferences abroad. The signal was often unreliable; he was busy with colleagues; he liked his space. She hadn’t been worried at all, never mind sensing anything amiss.
It’s true, she had tried to call him several times in the last few days, but only because of that thing she’d found out on Monday. The big, mad, incomprehensible thing she urgently needed to tell him about. But she hadn’t been too concerned when he hadn’t returned her missed calls.
Paula turns now in her kitchen to explain to John what’s happened, and then remembers that she can’t tell John that John is dead. Because he’s dead.
Instead, she backs up, across the kitchen, letting the phone handset clatter noisily onto the faded orange floor tiles. She finds cupboards at her back and leans there for a few minutes, feeling the cool surfaces through her thin jumper. It’s the cupboard with all the plates in it. Not all the plates, of course. The nice crockery is in the cupboard above the oven. John’s always too worried they’ll get broken, so they never use them.
He was always too worried. He can’t be worried anymore. Because he’s dead.
Paula considers sitting down on the floor, but she’s not sure she’d be able to get up. Does it matter though? If she can’t get up again? Why would she ever need to get up again?
She slides down, finding the frigid cold tiles beneath her, and then stares back up at that stain on the ceiling. She’d meant to turn the light on for a better look. But now the switch seems too far away and she was right before: standing up is going to be a complex negotiation. The stain – or shadow – will have to stay where it is. Unresolved.
‘Mum?’ It’s her son, Seb, squinting at her from the open back door.
He looks so very young. Thirty is still young, she thinks, though she didn’t feel it at the time. She had two babies at his age, whereas he’s yet to learn how to use the washing machine by himself. Seb rubs his eyes and Paula notes how red they are, how tired he looks.
Perhaps he’s been crying about his father? Except he doesn’t know yet, does he? She’s going to have to tell him. And Tilly. She wonders how she’ll find the words and looks at the phone on the floor, wondering if 1471 still tells you the last number to ring. Maybe she can get the nice man with the nice accent back on the line to explain it all to her children.
‘What are you doing on the floor?’ he asks, looking a little alarmed. ‘Did you get hold of Dad yet? Did you tell him the big news?’
‘No,’ Paula says softly.
It really is such bad timing that John’s dead. Just when the biggest thing to ever happen to either of them – to anyone she’s ever met! – has occurred. Just when she and John have won twenty-one million pounds on the lottery.
How is she going to manage this on her own?
And how in the world is she going to get up off the floor?
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Subject: Some news
Dear John,
Oh my goodness, I’ve only just realised how funny it is that I’m sending you a Dear John letter! I’m sure you would laugh at me for that.
Would’ve laughed.
That is hard to get used to.
Frankly, John, everything has been hard to get used to. These last couple of weeks without you in the world have been so . . .
I’m afraid I don’t have the right words.
Seb would probably call the whole thing bananapants, but I know you never liked it when our children used made-up words. You would probably peer at him over your reading glasses and ask what exactly about the situation involves a banana or a pair of pants. And you can’t argue with that kind of logic.
Although I did have a banana for breakfast this morning, if that matters.
You would no doubt find it strange that I’m writing you an email, of all things. When would I ever email you? Never! Not when I saw you every day. I can’t remember the last time I really even used it, except to confirm my work schedule with Gary. The only emails I get are from Facebook about the community group page upset about potholes, and JustGiving because of that time Tilly ran a 5k.
Tilly’s been taking care of everything since you . . . She’s been calling people and letting them know. About what’s happened. She’s desperate to arrange your funeral, but we have to wait for your remains to arrive back in the UK before we can do that. I spoke to the nice man with the nice accent again about it yesterday, and he says it might be a few more weeks. Some of the paperwork has come through, but not your death certificate or your . . . ashes. I’m told they take longer to arrange.
Tilly cancelled your mobile phone contract yesterday. I didn’t want her to do that, not yet. Not with so much going on that I need to talk to you about. But you know what she’s like; she said it was important to get everything sorted out as quickly as possible. She said it would allow me to ‘deal with all the tentacles of grief’. She really liked that analogy, but I’m afraid I don’t. It just made me picture an octopus handing me a hankie. And you know how I feel about seafood.
Either way, I tried to ring you this morning. It’s not like I expected you to answer, but I wanted to hear your voice on the answering machine and I needed to tell you something. Of course, it was dead.
Not dead. Just . . . not working.
I’ll stop waffling, I know you hated it when I waffled.
The point is, John. We won the jackpot.
All those tickets. A lifetime of tickets! The same numbers on the same standing order for all these years. And we finally won.
Did you know, we’ve been playing the lottery since 1995? I remember that first ticket because I was pregnant with Seb at the time, and you held my arm so tightly and said to me that we were definitely going to win. You were right, as always. Just thirty years and one fatal car accident too late.
We talked so many times about what we’d do with the money, how it would fix everything. But we never really considered all the fiddly bits. It’s been a funny old time since I got the notification on the app. Tilly called the helpline for large prize winners, and the operator scheduled an in-person meeting. Someone called Amy rang us back. She was very nice – her mum is called Paula, isn’t that a coincidence? We had to go and see her at the office with our identification, where she talked to us about financial advisors and investments. It was all very overwhelming. If I’m honest with you, I didn’t take much of it in. Thank goodness Tilly was with me. She made all the decisions, answered all the questions and filled in all the paperwork.
I was just back from that meeting when I got the call about you.
I haven’t really been able to process anything since. Tilly says it’s the grief. She said that thing about the tentacles again and I had to stop listening because I couldn’t stop picturing clammy little suckers reaching for me.
If you’re wondering how much we won, John, I’ll tell you. It was 25 million euros on the Euromillions. I thought it would take a long time to sort, but it was only about a week. £20,725,250, just sitting there in our bank account. And there it still sits, I’m afraid, though Tilly keeps telling me I have to do something about it. It has to be moved or invested or something.
I’m sure she’s right but I can’t. Not yet.
Goodbye for now, John,
Paula xx
PS. The kitchen ceiling has another leak and I don’t know what to do.
‘WHERE’S THE BOLLOCKING WHISKY?’ John’s brother, Tom, hollers his question from inside one of Paula’s cupboards. His huge pink head reappears moments later. He squints angrily at her across the room, awaiting a response.
‘The cupboard under the stairs,’ she bleats, wondering what John would think of his bullish older brother stealing their very limited supplies of expensive alcohol. Tom stands up, grunting and huffing, stalking through the kitchen and back out into the hallway. John’s other two brothers – Pete and Leonard – both stand to follow. The three of them have always done things as a pack, usually leaving their youngest sibling, John, on the outside.
‘Found it!’ Tom yells, and Paula shoots an apologetic glance towards the non-family member in the room. The solicitor blinks back, looking vaguely alarmed.
‘Shall we get on with this?’ Tilly asks anxiously as the men pile back into the room, sourcing glasses and sloshing liquid.
The solicitor smiles uneasily. ‘You know, we don’t usually do these anymore,’ he gestures around Paula’s small kitchen. ‘People always ask if there will be a will-reading, like they see on TV, but it’s really not necessary these days.’
He takes a seat in John’s chair at the head of the table and Paula feels panic rising in her chest. John wouldn’t like someone else sitting in his chair, never mind a stranger. She makes a sort of strangled noise and her daughter turns in her direction. She reddens as John’s three brothers exchange a smirk.
‘You OK?’ Tilly’s wife, Misha, leans in closer. She’s always been very kind, and Paula nods gratefully. She is OK. She just has to keep trying to remember that John is gone and it doesn’t really matter who sits in his chair. It only feels like it matters.
‘So why are we even here then?’ one of the brothers booms, looking irritated, swigging from his amber drink. ‘If this could’ve been a goddamned email, what are we doing here?’
The solicitor glances over at Tilly, and Paula understands that it is her daughter who has requested this.
‘I just thought it would be better if Mum could hear all this,’ Tilly says with self-assurance, ‘y’know, out loud.’ She looks around at the group, making pointed eye contact with Misha, then her three uncles, followed by Seb.
Paula stares down at her lap. She has been having a little trouble hearing things since she got that call about John. It’s not that her ears are failing her, it’s just that the words don’t settle. They act like a fine snowy mist that melt into nothing the moment they land. She can hear the words OK, but she can’t quite understand them. She can’t internalise them. She’s been having particular trouble with words that have been written down. Every time Paula tries to read, everything jumbles up in a confusing blur. Which is no doubt why Tilly’s made this poor solicitor come all the way out to their house, instead of letting him send everyone an email.
‘Do I need to be here?’ On her left, Seb sounds bored, his tone childish. ‘Can I go home?’
When Seb says home, he’s referring to the shed at the bottom of Paula’s garden, where he currently resides. There is no running water and no electricity. Unless you count the very long extension lead he has running all the way from the main house, in order to power his game console. There’s also a single bed, squeezed in beside Tilly’s childhood chest of drawers. And a lot of spiders.
But Seb likes living there because he has – his word – ‘independence’ and can just about claim publicly that he doesn’t live at home.
And it is, at least, a step up from his previous accommodation; a dilapidated, rusty old caravan on Paula’s driveway.
Seb is thirty years old.
‘Can we get on with this?’ Tom booms, pouring himself, Pete and Leonard another quadruple whisky.
Tilly brightens. ‘If everyone else is having a drink, maybe we should have one, too?’ She doesn’t wait for an answer, getting herself, Misha and Seb a beer – John’s beer – and placing a tall glass of Malibu and Coke in front of Paula.
Paula stares at it. She can’t stand Malibu and Coke. It’s like drinking fabric softener.
‘Thank you, sweetheart,’ she says carefully. ‘But I think I’ll just stick to water.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Tilly says cheerfully. ‘It’s your favourite and everyone else is having one!’
Paula nods, and takes a tiny sip of the fabric softener. It’s horrible.
‘So first off,’ the solicitor clears his throat, ‘I should say that John appointed his daughter’ – he looks up from the page, pointing a flat palm at Tilly on his right – ‘as his executor. That means you are responsible for administering the estate and dealing with any assets, Ms Sheldon. We can talk this through in more detail after the will-reading.’
Tilly looks a little surprised and Paula feels a few eyes on her. She senses confusion from the room, but of course John appointed their daughter! Paula’s always been hopeless with that kind of thing and Tilly is so very capable.
‘It also means you’re technically in charge of funeral arrangements, which I understand’ – he pauses, glancing up for confirmation – ‘hasn’t taken place yet?’
Taking the lead, Tilly nods. ‘We’ve had to wait a couple of weeks for the paperwork and we’re still waiting on Dad’s . . . remains.’ She pauses to swallow. She’s only two years older than Seb, but while he seems like a teenager, sometimes Tilly seems even older than Paula. ‘But we’re hoping it’ll be soon.’ She glances at Paula. ‘We have it in hand.’
Paula nods, though she’s done nothing.
‘This is an informal process,’ the solicitor continues, ‘I’m just here to read out John’s statement and wishes, and then help clarify anything. So, if anyone has any questions, please do speak up.’ He leans back in John’s chair. It creaks in the same way it did for John. Paula fights back that urge again – the one that wants to scream for the man to move. But people are allowed to sit in chairs. Even John’s chairs.
‘I’ll crack on then.’ The solicitor nods around the room, then clears his throat. ‘I’ll start with John’s opening statement, which he wrote as follows: “Hello everyone, John here. It seems I’m dead, how strange. Hopefully I went peacefully in my bed at the age of 99, beside my loving wife, Paula.”’ Next to her at the table, Misha reaches for Paula’s hand but she shrinks away from the kindness. Affection is only going to make all of this harder. The solicitor continues, ‘“I lived a good life. I tried to be a good man. I worked hard and made sure I provided for my wife and children. I hope I will be remembered fondly by one and all. Goodbye. See you when I see you. Love, John.”’ Paula stares down at the table as, across from her, she hears Tilly start to cry. Either side of her, both Misha and Seb sound a little sniffy, too.
Should Paula be crying? Probably. But if she starts crying now, goodness knows what might happen.
‘I’ll read out his estate bequests now,’ the solicitor begins, and the room shifts a little with expectation. ‘To his brother Pete, John leaves his collection of pool cues, along with his lifetime membership of the local snooker club.’ Pete looks pleased with this and nods slowly, sipping his whisky.
‘For his brother Tom, John leaves his clothes, along with his famous collection of belt buckles. His brother Leonard is to take possession of his stamps, his chess set, and the whisky under the stairs.’ Tom and Pete exchange guilty looks, whisky in hand, as Leonard regards them with outrage. Tom quickly downs the remaining liquid in his glass.
The solicitor watches them for a moment, his expression bewildered, then turns in Tilly’s direction. ‘Er, to his daughter Matilda, John leaves his most treasured possession: a signed, framed photograph of Ronnie O’Sullivan and a first edition of Ronnie’s autobiography.’ Tilly releases a small guttural sob as he continues, ‘And to his son, Sebastian, he leaves the fishing equipment out in the garage and his unfinished memoir, titled Snookered.’ The solicitor adjusts his glasses. ‘Apologies, I can see that name has been amended to All Cued Up.’
‘That’s not better,’ Misha murmurs, but Seb looks pleased.
The solicitor continues, ‘The rest of the estate – including the house and any other assets, financial, etc. – have been bequeathed to John’s wife Paula.’
There is a moment of silence as the room digests this.
Misha leans forward gingerly. ‘Is there nothing specific or personal for Paula?’
‘Never mind that!’ one of the uncles shouts. ‘What about the lottery money? Does that mean she gets the lot?’
Paula’s head whips around. Pete is standing over them, hands on hips, his empty glass discarded on the kitchen counter. Behind him, Tom and Leonard are listening intently, their expressions hard and menacing.
Paula can feel shock making her face slack. How do they know about the lottery win?
Every week, when they checked the results, John would turn to Paula and say, ‘If we win, we won’t tell a soul. Lottery winners don’t make good friends.’
And of course he was right. He was right about everything. She had no intention of telling anyone about the win. No one beyond Tilly and Seb. She glances at her children fearfully. Seb is staring at the table, guilt painted clearly across his face. Tilly meets Paula’s eyes, then rolls hers.
‘Ah,’ the solicitor says, and it’s clear he, too, knows about the win. He removes his glasses and adopts a serious expression. ‘From what I understand, the ticket was jointly bought, and even if it were John’s ticket exclusively, it would still automatically become part of his estate. And – as I said – the will is very clear that it all goes to Paula.’
Pete takes a step forward. ‘That’s outrageous!’ He waves his hands and Paula cowers, though he’s at the other side of the table. ‘What does she even need twenty million for? I’ve got three ex-wives and six stepkids.’ He huffs furiously, waving at Paula without looking in her direction. ‘John paid off this house years ago. She’s living on easy street!’
Paula feels a stab of horror as Tilly jumps up, looking angry. ‘Hey!’ she says. ‘You have no right to speak to my mother like that.’
Pete waves at the solicitor. ‘I was talking to this guy, actually. We’re owed some of that money. He was our little brother. We should be getting at least a couple of million each. She doesn’t need it.’
Paula swallows hard. The truth is, they did indeed pay off their mortgage a long time ago. But then they had to re-mortgage when the roof needed re-doing. And then re-mortgage again a few years ago when a neighbour complained about the asbestos garage. They’ve long since run out of money. John hadn’t had a pay rise at work in years and Paula never brought in much from her work at the care home. Maybe they could’ve just about made ends meet, if the bills didn’t keep going up and things didn’t keep going wrong with this old house.
She glances anxiously over at the stain on the ceiling.
Never mind easy street, it has been quite difficult and stingy street for a long time now. John had to count every penny in the last few years. It’s why they played the lottery so religiously every week.
And now they . . . she has almost twenty-one million pounds sitting in the bank.
Tom and Pete are almost nose to nose with the solicitor, loudly debating the veracity of the will. Pete is hotly explaining how one of his stepkids urgently needs a new iPad. Apparently he is sick of the fifteen-year-old borrowing his computer for porn. The solicitor looks a little green.
Tilly gets involved.
Paula takes a long, deep drink of the fabric softener and stands up. She can’t listen to this horrible nonsense anymore. She’ll leave them to it; let them all shout it out. They can have the money if they want, she doesn’t care. She doesn’t want it.
Everything is so different all of a sudden, she just wants everything back the way it was. She wants John to be here, taking care of things like he always did. At the very least, she needs him here taking care of his shouty brothers.
As Paula mounts the creaky stairs, more than ready to hide in her bedroom for as long as it takes, she hears the front door bell. Somewhere in among the noisy din of men – and Tilly – shouting in the kitchen about how the tenth generation iPad isn’t modern enough, Paula catches the sound of Seb opening the door and speaking. Curious, she turns back down the stairs, just as her son appears. He’s holding a box and looking a little dazed.
‘What is it?’ Paula asks and he looks up at her.
He holds up the item in his hands. Paula stares at it. She suddenly knows what it is, what it must be.
‘Dad’s home,’ her son says simply, gingerly putting down the box. The box carrying John’s ashes.
The high-pitched wailing has not stopped all day. It didn’t stop once as they brought in John’s casket, it did not stop during the eulogies, and it has not stopped even here at the upmarket pub where they’re hosting a wake. Not even as the wailer in question consumed five and a half cucumber and salmon sandwiches.
‘Do you think she’s all right?’ Paula asks Tilly, concern in her voice.
Tilly huffs. ‘Oh, she’s bloody well fine, Mum. There’s always someone at a funeral who makes everything about them. It’s not actually about mourning, or even celebrating the deceased, it’s about having all eyes and attention on their grief. She’s a grief thief!’ She regards her mum curiously. ‘You should be the one crying, not her.’
‘John did always say Bridget was prone to hysterics,’ Paula whispers, glancing anxiously across the room at her husband’s former secretary. As if on cue, Bridget’s wailing inches up yet another octave. It is now that very special pitch employed by Bond villains to kill secret agents’ brain cells.
Tilly winces at the sound, then tuts. ‘That’s sexist, Mum. You wouldn’t call a man hysterical.’
Paula looks flustered, murmuring an apology. She’s always saying the wrong thing around her daughter.
‘Here,’ Seb appears from the bar, holding two glasses. ‘Mum, I got you your usual.’ He hands her a Malibu and Coke and she sighs, accepting it. More fabric softener.
Seb swigs his beer, his eyes bloodshot. Paula would like to believe it’s from the stress of the day. Or that maybe he’s been up all night, weeping the loss of his father. Except that rather strong smell of marijuana wafting around him would indicate otherwise.
‘Can we leave yet?’ her thirty-year-old-going-on-thirteen son asks.
‘No!’ Tilly hisses at her little brother. ‘There are still sandwiches to be eaten. And none of the uncles are even drunk yet. They’d be furious. Everyone has to have time to . . .
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