Losing Me (32 page)

“On the way home, could we take a detour via the Orchard Farm Estate?”

“Of course. But why on earth would you want to go there?”

“I’ve had this insane idea—at least you’ll probably think it’s insane. And I’d like your advice.”

In fact, she wanted rather more than his advice, but that could wait.

“What sort of an insane idea?”

She said she would explain when they got there.

•   •   •

The late-afternoon sun shone down on the Orchard Farm Estate, partially lifting it from its gloom. A handful of kids were skateboarding and doing wheelies on their bikes. A gaggle of mothers was gossiping in the playground while they kept half an eye on their toddlers.

“What a bloody godforsaken place this is,” Jack said.

“You should see it in the wind and rain.”

“So what is it you want to show me?”

She led him to the derelict community center.

“OK,” he said, his brogues sidestepping a dog turd. “And you’ve brought me here because?”

“How much would it cost to demolish this place and put up a new building?”

“What sort of a building?”

“A new community center. But four or five times the size.”

“Five times?”

“At least. It’s a big plot, and it doesn’t have to be a single story. I’m thinking of a place dedicated entirely to women and children. There’s so much domestic violence on estates like this. Women need a place where they can feel safe, where there are people who can advise and help them. I was thinking that maybe it could be run in association with the local women’s refuge. On top of that, I want it to be somewhere for local women just to hang out and where their kids can play. Oh, and plus it has to provide after-school activities for older kids.”

“Of course it does. . . . And you came up with all this in the car?”

“Let’s say the idea sort of crystallized in the car. And this would only be phase one.”

She could see that Jack was trying not to smile. “And phase two would be?”

“A small special-needs school. I thought about involving Larkswood House. The parents are wealthy. Lots of them have dyslexic children. I thought about asking them and the school governors to help raise money to sponsor it. Maybe in time the two schools could even link up in some way.”

“Good Lord, you’re not asking much, are you?”

“I know, but I can’t sit back and let Tiffany’s death be for nothing. I have to do something. And this feels like a good place to start. You think I’m completely bonkers, don’t you?”

“Completely.”

They did a tour of the plot. There was a good deal of open space plus a car park at the back.

“Well, I suppose if you incorporated the car park, you could fit a decent-sized building here.”

Barbara said it would need to include offices, a large area for women and children to hang out, a kitchen and a café.

“Oh, and an outside play space for the kids.” She paused. “So I guess what I’m asking you is this: if I could convince the local council to come on board, do you think your company would give me . . . us . . . a deal on the building costs?. . . I never told you that chutzpah is one of my more endearing personal qualities.”

“And one I highly approve of,” Jack said, laughing. “So, what sort of a deal would you be looking for?”

“I don’t know. Off the top of my head? A fifteen percent discount.”

“Tell you what. You get the project off the ground and I’ll do the whole job for the cost of the materials.”

“Are you serious? Why would you do that?”

“Because I want to.”

“Hang on. . . . If you’re doing this because you feel guilty about our failed weekend, please don’t. I’m just as much to blame as you are.”

“It’s not that—at least not entirely. If you can make this thing happen, it would be my pleasure to back it.”

“But it’s too much. I can’t have you do it for cost.”

“Don’t be daft. Of course you can.”

Her eyes met his. “No. Really. I can’t.”

“Why? Because you think you don’t deserve it?”

“I don’t know. . . . Maybe.”

“Good Lord, Barbara. For an intelligent woman, you’re being terribly dense. This isn’t about what you deserve. It’s about the people you’re trying to help. And for the record, after the rotten time you’ve had, I think you’re entitled to a break.”

She reached out and took his hand. “What can I say?. . . Thank you.”

“My pleasure. But there’s something I need to ask. . . . If we’re to become business partners, presumably we’re still going to be friends.”

“We can manage that, can’t we? We’re both grown-ups. We’ve talked. We understand each other. I think we can move on, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Good. That’s settled.”

“Of course, you do realize I’ve got to get this proposal past my board of directors?”

“Heavens. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Don’t worry. I’m just teasing. It won’t be a problem. I still own fifty-one percent of the shares. It’s my vote that counts. But even with my company cutting you a deal, it’s going to cost the council a million pounds or so for building materials.”

“Blimey. As much as that?”

“Could be more. The problem is they haven’t got that kind of money—not these days.”

“OK. Then I’ll raise it.”

“How?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

•   •   •

Tiffany was to have a state funeral—in the sense that the state would pick up the bill. It was destined to be a cheap municipal affair. She would be dispatched in a basic pine coffin. An indecently short cremation ceremony would be led by a dreary clergyman with about as much charisma as broccoli, who had never set eyes on Tiffany or her children. It would be held in one of those sterile seventies chapels with tacky stained-glass windows and fake wood paneling. Velvet curtains would open on cue, and Tiffany’s coffin would disappear, silently on rollers—into the furnace. Only it wouldn’t. Crematoria were always understaffed and there was a constant backlog. Tiffany would have to wait her turn, along with all the other cadavers. After the cremation, her ashes would probably be guarded by social services until Troy and Lacie were deemed mature enough to take charge of them. Meanwhile, there would be no grave for them to visit, nowhere for them to lay flowers. There would be no memorial, no marker to let the world know that Tiffany Butler had ever existed.

But the state hadn’t reckoned on Kenzie, Lexie and Leanne. Maureen told Barbara how the friends—who had previously taken it in turns to sit at Tiffany’s bedside—had shown up at her office one day: three gum-clicking girls in tracksuits and hooped earrings, wanting to know who was “the head one” they should speak to about the funeral. They were less than impressed with what the state had to offer. For a start, there was no way Tiffany could be cremated. “She was, like, well—scared of fire, innit.” And she believed in God, so they wanted a proper vicar bloke doing the honors in one of those old-fashioned churches like on
Downton.
And she should be buried in a churchyard with a gravestone and everything. They also wanted proper religious hymns: “Candle in the Wind” and Robbie Williams singing “Angels.”

“When I told them there was no money for anything fancy,” Maureen said, “they really had a go at me. They said that Tiffany had been through enough and that the least she deserved was a decent send-off. I couldn’t argue with them.”

“Tell you what,” Barbara said. “Why don’t I ring round some of the local churches, explain how Tiffany died and that she has no family and see if we can’t get some kind of a reduction on a church service and burial?”

Barbara thought it would be easy. There wasn’t a priest in the land who wouldn’t ask themselves—what would Jesus do? They would all be falling over one another to give their services for free. But the local clergymen were of one voice: charity-wise, all their money was spoken for. She was just about to give up when Maureen called back. She’d been chatting to one of the women who ran a local women’s refuge. It turned out her husband was vicar of Saint Catherine’s in Dalston and they had a burial fund to help poor parishioners. Tiffany could be given a church funeral and be buried free of charge.

In the end there was quite a turnout. Kenzie, Lexie and Leanne brought their boyfriends—all of whom appeared to have gone out and bought black bomber jackets and matching ties for the occasion. The Indian chap from the corner shop where Tiffany bought her fags and mags came with his wife. Sandra was there with a handful of teachers from school. Maureen came with a wreath of sunflowers, which she laid alongside the others.

The hearse pulled up outside the church entrance. There were teddy-bear wreaths on top of the coffin. There was one made of white chrysanthemums trimmed with pink ribbon that spelled
Mum.
Alongside Tiffany’s body, Kenzie and the others had placed Tiffany’s hair straighteners, her liquid eyeliner, mascara and her phone, fully charged, so that people could text her. She was wearing her best tracksuit.

Troy was veal-white. Mike kept a protective arm around him. Meanwhile, Carole held Lacie and fed her Cheerios to keep her quiet. At one point Mike and Troy started playing rock-paper-scissors. When Carole shushed them for making a noise, they started giggling like a couple of conspirators.

“Mike’s been doing his best to cheer him up,” Carole said to Barbara and Maureen, “but the poor kid’s terrified of watching his mother being buried in the ground. I’m still not sure we should have brought him, but his counselor said he needed to say good-bye and that if he didn’t come to the funeral, it would always be a mystery to him and he could grow up resenting being kept away.”

Mike was crouching down in front of Troy. “You see, the thing is, when they put your mum in the ground, it’s only her body—the bit that doesn’t work anymore. But your mum’s soul is up in heaven.”

“What’s a soul?”

“Well, it’s the real her, the bit you can’t see.”

“You mean like a ghost? Ghosts are scary. They come and haunt you.”

“That’s not true. There are no such things as ghosts. And anyway, why would you ever, in a million years, be scared of your mum? She loved you and she still does. She would never, ever want to frighten you.”

Troy reached for Mike’s hand, still not convinced.

•   •   •

The coffin was carried up the aisle to the accompaniment of Jay Z’s “Hard Knock Life.” Barbara probably wasn’t alone in thinking how much poor white kids identified with black ghetto kids these days. The reverend Nick said that he hadn’t had the privilege to know Tiffany, but he knew something of the hardships she had faced. He spoke of a loving young mother who struggled alone to raise her children and whose young life had been cut short in the most appalling circumstances. He hoped that everybody would take comfort from the fact that she was now out of pain and her struggle was over.

The reverend motioned towards Mike, who in turn looked at Troy. “You sure you’re up for this, mate? It’s OK if you’re not.”

But Troy was already on his feet. He and Mike made their way hand in hand down the aisle and stood beside Tiffany’s coffin. Reverend Nick explained that Troy had a few words he would like to say.

“I can’t believe this,” Barbara whispered to Carole. “He barely said a word in class other than to have a tantrum.”

Carole said he’d found his voice because he was doing it for his mum.

Troy looked at the coffin and laid his hand on the wood. Reverend Nick handed him a microphone. Troy took a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it and began to read.

“My mum was pretty and beautiful and good and kind and she would snuggle up with me and not let me drink too much Coke because it’s bad for you.” His voice quivered and trembled, but it rang out. “Me and Lacie loved her very much and we will never forget her. Not ever. And we hope she’s happy up in heaven and the angels are looking after her.” The reverend handed Troy a single white rose. He laid it on the top of his mother’s coffin. Mike mouthed, “Well done. You OK?” Troy nodded and Mike gave him a squeeze.

The congregation listened to a CD of Robbie Williams singing “Angels.” Mawkish as it was, tears fell like rain.

In the end Troy couldn’t manage to be there for the burial. He waited with Mike at the front of the church while people followed the coffin into the churchyard. Kenzie, Lexie and Leanne were on their phones texting.

“Have those girls got no respect?” Maureen hissed to Barbara. “They were meant to be Tiffany’s friends.”

“I’m guessing it’s Tiffany they’re texting—to wish her a safe journey to the afterlife.”

“Fabulous. All we need now is for her phone to go off in her coffin and a hundred people are going to start fainting and having hysterics.”

But it didn’t—at least not so that anybody could hear.

When the service was over, Barbara took her turn to shovel earth onto the coffin. As the heavy London clay landed with a thud, fury bubbled up inside her.

Everybody went back to Carole’s for tea and bridge rolls. Lacie had dozed off in the car on the way home and was napping in her cot. Troy had the TV on quietly at one end of the living room. “He’s a bit overwhelmed,” Carole said to Barbara. “I thought it would calm him down.”

“How’s he doing generally?”

“The sadness still overwhelms him, and apart from Mike, he’s pretty wary of men. But he’s started counseling with this lovely lady. She doesn’t think he’s ready to go back to school yet, but we’ll get there.”

Then she excused herself. The reverend Nick was on his own, looking a bit lost. “I should go over and have a chat—say thank you for everything.”

Barbara made her way to the buffet table and helped herself to a bridge roll.

“Barbara.” The voice came from behind her. “How are you?”

She turned. “Sandra! . . . I’m so sorry we haven’t spoken. I should have called. It’s just that there’s been so much going on and . . .”

“Stop it. I’m just as bad. I could have called you. But I knew you still weren’t well, and I wasn’t sure if you’d appreciate me phoning. . . . Anyway, I just want to come over to wish you luck with the community center project. It’s a marvelous idea. Carole’s just been telling me all about it. I knew you’d find your feet again. I’m so pleased.”