Run, Mummy, Run (23 page)

But wait, what was this? Aisha’s attention focused again on the contents of the briefcase. Here were some official-looking brown envelopes. She began opening them, taking out the contents, and setting them on the floor beside her. A pension report, that was hopeful; one part of the new-style driving licence, the other section was probably in his wallet, wherever that was; a contract for work – apparently he had changed his job two years previously with a starting salary of £85,000!
Thanks for telling me!
she thought angrily. And here was the bike’s registration document, filled in ready to send off, and also the bike’s insurance.
Getting warmer
, she thought. She opened the next envelope, which contained a copy of his birth certificate, then the next, which was the car’s blue registration document with correspondence from an insurance company. She flipped over the pages stapled at one corner and read the titles: ‘Renewal Notice’, ‘Schedule’, ‘Certificate of Motor Insurance’. This was it. Her heart beat loudly in her chest as she ran her finger down the boxes of small print –
Certificate number, Car Registration number, Effective date of commencement, Person or classes of persons entitled to drive.
This was the section she wanted, her mouth went dry as she read:
The following are insured to drive this car: The policy-holder. Any person with the permission of the owner, provided that the person holds a licence to drive the vehicle or has held and is not disqualified from holding or obtaining such a licence.

She stopped and reread it. Yes, it applied to her – she was a driver with a full licence, never mind that she hadn’t had his permission, they weren’t to know. Thank goodness. She breathed a sigh of relief. She
was
insured to drive his car. Hallelujah! She put the insurance certificate to one side and with tears of gratitude and relief streaming down her face, continued through the remaining papers. There was no sign of his will and the rest of the papers were work documents, together with an address book.

Aisha sat back and stretched out her legs which were stiff from kneeling, and wiped her wet cheeks on the back of her hand. She began turning the pages of his slim, gold-edged, sleek address book, which she thought might hold clues to his life outside the house. There were names she didn’t recognize, there was no reason why she should; she had been excluded from his life when she had given up work and was at home with baby Sarah. Yet it was eerie seeing Mark’s neat distinctive handwriting, in fountain pen, not biro. Some names were obviously work contacts; others, male and female, had been entered under their first name only. There were email addresses, mobile numbers, and website addresses. Aisha returned to the front of the book and went down the first page again, methodically going through:
Alan, Abbott Holdings, Astute Accountancy, Ann
– whoever she was she had her own website. She turned the page.
B. Brian
, with an email address, website and mobile. How sophisticated these people were.
Bikers Galore, Bikers Ahead, Beemax, Bertram Holdings
– that was his pension company, she had seen it on the headed paper.
C. Cherry Lodge, Cinema (Odeon and Vue), Chinese Restaurant – Gerrard Street
– he had bracketed it
(very good)
, with a landline number and website address.
He’s never taken me to that Chinese restaurant
, she thought bitterly, or any other restaurant in the last seven years, but Mark had clearly visited it often for the page was well-thumbed and he would never have merited it ‘very good’ if he hadn’t eaten there a number of times, for Mark was a discerning food critic. Aisha continued over the page:
Children’s school
– Oh, so you remembered you had children!
Chiropodist, Chauffeur-driven Cars, Car Hire, Christine.
She stopped. Christine. Christine. That name rang a bell.

She looked down again at Christine’s details, her address in Pleasant Road was only a mile or so away, and the 10c probably meant it was a flat. Christine? Then sentences began to form and return from a long time ago and Aisha started to remember. Mark’s voice, not the one that cursed and shouted at her but the cultured, softly spoken and charming voice of Mark that complimented her during their courtship: ‘When my marriage to Angela ended,’ she heard him say, ‘I moved out. I lived in a bedsit … I really had reached rock bottom. Then I met Christine. She was the life and soul of the party … Within a few months we had set up home together. It was only then I found out …’ Of course, Christine was the name of the alcoholic who had initially proved Mark’s saving grace before the drink set in. Same person or a coincidence? There was no surname and she doubted she had ever known it anyway.

Aisha continued to look through the book, there were lots of women’s names; as well as Christine, and Ann of www. annwright.co.uk, there was Jane, Marion Peters, Sue, and Yvette Walters, none of whom seemed to be work contacts.
So, is that where you were when you stayed out all night, or disappeared at weekends and took the car? Is that why you needed the insurance to cover any driver?
For it had occurred to Aisha that while she was relieved she hadn’t been driving Mark’s car illegally, without insurance, it raised the question as to why he had the additional cover. ‘I wasn’t allowed to drive your car so it wasn’t for my benefit,’ she said. ‘More likely it was so you could have a decent bottle of wine with your meal at one of these expensive restaurants and let someone else drive.’ Aisha remembered that Mark had been very particular about drink and driving during their courtship, and how impressed she’d been when he’d passed her his car keys at the end of one evening and said, ‘Here, love, you drive, I’ve had a couple of drinks.’ She also remembered how she’d sat proudly behind the wheel of his gleaming silver BMW while he’d watched her admiringly from the passenger seat and stroked her hair. A long long time ago – in the days when he told her how much he loved her and would do so forever.

W
ith her eyes fixed and staring straight ahead, Aisha hurried along the pavement. Her coat was buttoned up to her neck and her hair, now completely loose, was flying out behind her in a tangled mane. She kept her gaze on some indistinct point straight in front, and ignored the stares of passers-by. Who cared what she looked like? Certainly not her. And she doubted the undertakers would pay much attention either; they must be used to people arriving bedraggled, overwhelmed by grief and unconcerned with their appearance.

Aisha hadn’t realized that she would actually have to go to the undertaker, and straightaway. She had thought it was something that could be done over the phone, and more or less when she felt like it, which she hadn’t, and certainly didn’t now. It was her mother who had said that she needed to make the funeral arrangements when Aisha had phoned that morning to speak to the children. ‘Haven’t the hospital been in touch with the certificate of death?’ her mother said.

‘Yes.’

‘Well, you need to get in contact with an undertaker, Aisha. You can’t leave it any longer, it’s been four days now.’

Which the woman at the undertakers had repeated when Aisha had phoned: ‘We have a two o’clock appointment this afternoon, if that’s convenient. We shouldn’t really leave it much longer.’ So Aisha had agreed, two o’clock was as convenient as any other time, if she really had to go. But it felt strange being out in the world after four days in the house. There was a distance, a light-headedness, an air of unreality in all she saw and heard. Though this could have been due to the lack of food, she thought, for apart from the last of her mother’s
dhal
and mango squash, she’d had nothing but water. With the children away she really couldn’t be bothered with buying food, cooking or eating.

Aisha paused to glance at her watch, but couldn’t read the figures. The glass was shattered and cracks reached out from the centre like tentacles. She knew it was broken, so why it was still on her wrist she’d no idea. It had been like that since the accident, although she thought it had been broken in the garage when he’d brought her down – that was the only time she remembered hitting her arm. She stepped off the pavement to cross the road, then stopped quickly as a car screeched to a halt, its horn blaring. Aisha stared at the driver through his windscreen and then continued across. Before she reached the other side the driver tooted again and waved impatiently for her to hurry up.
Drivers could be so aggressive
, she thought; it was a wonder there weren’t more accidents!

Continuing to the top of her road she turned left along the High Street, checking the shop numbers against the number she’d written on the scrap of paper she held in her hand. She must have passed the undertakers many times before when she’d gone to the small grocers with her handful of coins further up the High Street, but she couldn’t remember seeing it. She supposed you didn’t really take much notice of funeral parlours – they were like building societies and estate agents, you largely ignored them unless you required their services.

She counted down the shops to 158 and then looked up at the sign above the shop: ‘H. Node, Funeral Director’. Wasn’t a node a swelling, a painful lump that had to be checked for cancer? Strange name for an undertaker, she thought, or perhaps it wasn’t. She’d chosen this undertaker from the plentiful lists in Yellow Pages simply because it was the nearest. Aisha studied the frosted glass door with its gold picture of a horse-drawn cortège. ‘Est. 1820’ it said in black lettering underneath.
Well, at least they would know what they were doing
, she thought,
which is more than I do.
But then again, did anyone her age know about funerals? How many people in their late thirties were proficient at burying the dead?

Aisha pushed open the door and a bell clanged from inside. A smartly dressed middle-aged woman in a grey two-piece suit appeared in reception. ‘Mrs Williams?’

Aisha nodded.

‘Come in, dear, I’ve been expecting you.’ The woman smiled, a professional half-smile, which ignored Aisha’s dishevelled appearance and offered sympathy.

‘I hope I’m not late,’ Aisha began. ‘Only my watch isn’t working and I dropped the one at home on the floor. It was his, you see, and I …’

The woman shook her head kindly. ‘No, you’re not. Come through to my office, we’ll be quite comfortable in there.’

She showed Aisha through a door on the left and into a small red-carpeted room. Four brocade chairs were arranged around a long, low coffee table which had a vase of fresh flowers in the centre.
All very tasteful and low-key
, Aisha thought, and pretty much what she’d expected, if she’d expected anything at all. An oak filing cabinet was against one wall, and over it hung a gilt-framed portrait of an old man, who was very distinguished-looking with a long beard and fob watch dangling across the waistcoat of his pinstripe suit.

‘Do sit down, dear, I’m Eileen Node, his great, great granddaughter,’ she said nodding at the portrait. ‘He was our founder. We’re a small family business. Can I get you something to drink?’

‘No, thank you. I’d like to get this over as quickly as possible, if you don’t mind.’

‘Yes, of course, dear. I do understand.’ She tutted sympathetically. ‘To be widowed so young and in such circumstances. Do you not have parents, or a relative or friend who could help you?’

‘My parents are looking after my children,’ Aisha said blankly.

Eileen Node tutted again. ‘I understand. Children … poor little mites.’

Aisha watched as Eileen went to the filing cabinet and took out a ring-binder folder and a writing pad. She returned, and sitting in the chair next to her, placed the folder on the table between them, and the pad on her lap.

‘Now, Mrs Williams, as I said on the phone, you mustn’t worry about any of the arrangements. We can take care of everything for you. There are a few decisions you will need to make, but the rest we can see to. Have you brought the death certificate with you?’

Aisha delved into her coat pocket and drew out the certificate; with it came the monk’s five-pound note, she tucked the money back into her pocket.

Eileen looked at the certificate then up at her. ‘This is the certificate of the cause of death. We need the death certificate. Have you been to the registry office and registered the death?’

‘No,’ Aisha said, confused.

‘All right, there’s no problem, but we need to do that as soon as possible though. Would you like us to take you? We can’t register the death for you, but we can send a car and accompany you. I know how gruelling all this can be.’

Aisha nodded.

Eileen made a note on the pad in her lap. ‘It must be done within five days of the date of death. We can collect you at nine thirty tomorrow – will that be all right?’

Aisha nodded again.

‘I’ll look after this certificate for you,’ she said, tucking it into the back of her pad. ‘The registrar will need it. If you have your husband’s NHS medical number it’s helpful, though not essential. You will find it on his medical card.’

Aisha sighed. ‘I’ll look for it. I don’t know. There seems so much to remember.’

‘Please don’t worry,’ Eileen said quickly. ‘The only decisions you have to make now are about the type of funeral you would like. I’ll talk you through it and explain everything. And if you wish to view your husband you will be able to do so here, from the day after tomorrow.’

Aisha stared at her, unable to believe what she had just heard. ‘See him? Here? What, dead?’

‘Yes, in our chapel of rest. It’s a little room at the back.’

‘No, I don’t want to see him. He’s not here now, is he?’ she looked anxiously around the room.

‘No, no, please don’t upset yourself. The body is still at the hospital. You don’t have to view it, dear; some people find it helpful but others do not. There is no compulsion.’ She flickered her half-smile of reassurance again and patted Aisha’s arm. ‘There would be no sign of the accident though, if you did change your mind. Your husband would be just as you remember him.’

She was horrified. ‘No, I wouldn’t find it helpful, not at all,’ Aisha said, agitated. ‘Can we just get on with this, please; I’m really not feeling so well.’

‘All right, dear, let’s concentrate on the arrangements.’ Eileen opened the folder and spread it on the table between them. She always found it was better to get straight down to arranging the funeral if the client was very distressed, it gave them something to focus on. Some liked to talk about the deceased, share their memories, but clearly that was not the case here.

‘Now, all you have to do now is to make a few decisions about the type of funeral you would like – cremation or burial, the cars, music, and order of service. Some of this will depend on your budget, of course.’ She glanced at Aisha. ‘Did your husband have funeral insurance, do you know?’

‘Insurance? I don’t know. Probably not, I haven’t found anything in his papers.’

‘No, most people don’t have funeral insurance so that’s why we have an easy payment plan. I’ll give you the details later. Now, you said on the phone you were thinking of a burial. Is that definite?’

Aisha nodded. ‘If it’s easier, yes.’

‘Well, in terms of form-filling, yes, but it really depends on the wishes of the deceased and next of kin.’ She looked at Aisha and waited.

Aisha felt the woman close beside her and thought how aptly her slow, measured movements fitted with her sombre line of work. She wondered if she had always been like that, or if it was a manner she had developed over time. Either way, Aisha wished she would just get on with it.

‘So it’s a burial then,’ Eileen Nodes said, making a note on her pad. She opened the folder to the first page, and Aisha looked down at it. There were photographs of cars, lined up in a funeral procession, with a shiny black hearse leading gleaming black limousines.

‘Do you know approximately how many will be attending the funeral, Mrs Williams?’ Eileen asked.

‘No, but I don’t think it will be many. There are my parents, his family. I don’t know about his friends or work.’

‘It’s just the immediate family I need to think about for the cars. Friends and work colleagues usually make their own way to the church and cemetery – unless you would prefer otherwise?’

Aisha shook her head.

‘So, how many are there in your family?’

‘Only my parents.’

‘Are your children going?’

‘I don’t know, I really hadn’t thought about it.’

‘I’ll allow for them, to be on the safe side. And your husband’s family?’

‘His parents and one brother. Maybe an aunt and uncle, I don’t know. He wasn’t close to his family, we hadn’t seen them in years.’

Eileen wrote on her pad while Aisha looked at the photographs of the black cars and wondered how on earth she was going to cope: the funeral on top of everything else was too much; she couldn’t start to get her mind round it.

‘Now, let’s take a look at the range of coffins,’ Eileen said, turning the page to a double spread of photographed coffins with various linings and handles. ‘This is our basic, economy one.’ She pointed with a well-manicured and polished nail. ‘It’s veneered wood, with a simple cotton lining and imitation brass handles. Quite adequate, but obviously not as luxurious as this, or this.’ Eileen ran her pink-glossed fingertip down and across the page. ‘Our classic is made from oak, with a real silk lining and genuine brass finishings.’

Aisha gazed at the photographed coffins as Eileen continued with her commentary, outlining other ‘finishings’. The catalogue reminded Aisha of the one she and her mother had chosen the invitations from when they’d planned her wedding a lifetime ago. But instead of the pages being laced with white and gold, these photographs were mounted on grey, with the pages trimmed in black. The hearse was in place of the white Rolls-Royce, and the wedding invitations were now order of service sheets, with examples of hymns and prayers. Bouquets and sprays were now wreaths or flowers crafted into a name – Mum, Dad, Sister, Uncle; in fact you could have anything you liked to remember the deceased, and Aisha wondered about ‘Bastard’. But why did people go to all this trouble for someone who would never see the end result? she thought. Why spend all this time and money when they were dead? Unless there was a link between guilt and the amount you should spend on a funeral, in which case, she decided, she’d need a massive loan to send Mark off in style.

Eileen had stopped talking and was waiting for her response.

‘They’re very nice,’ Aisha said, not realizing she was supposed to be making a choice. Something had started to trouble Aisha beyond all the talk of coffins and the disposal of the deceased’s remains. An odd smell, a half-familiar perfume, seemed to have come into the room while Eileen had been talking, and was becoming quite uncomfortable. ‘I’m sorry,’ Aisha said, sniffing the air, ‘that perfume you’re wearing, it’s familiar. What is it?’

Eileen smiled kindly. ‘La
Chaleur.
Smell can be a very poignant reminder, can’t it? It’s the most sensitive of all our senses, and also the last to leave us.’ Eileen returned to the folder and started talking again, this time about the dispersion of the flowers after the funeral, and how they could be taken to a hospital or nursing home, so that others could enjoy them rather than just leaving them on the grave and to the elements.

Aisha sniffed the air again.
Poignant reminder indeed, too poignant by half
, she thought. The smell was growing stronger by the second and she doubted it was Eileen’s
La Chaleur.
It was the same aroma that she smelt at home and it was just like Mark’s aftershave when he’d finished spraying it in the bathroom and had left the door open. Perhaps she’d got some on her hands when she’d thrown out all his aerosols and bottles and knotted them in the black bag? Aisha tentatively raised her fingers to her nose and sniffed, but it was no stronger on her fingers. Then she sniffed the palms of her hands, but there was nothing beyond the faintest hint of lavender from the cheap soap in the bathroom at home. Yet a smell there definitely was, and it was quickly getting worse, filling the room, permeating the air, flooding into her lungs and turning her breath sour. She pressed her chin down towards her shoulder and sniffed the material of her coat, but it only smelt slightly damp, and anyway she hadn’t been wearing her coat when she’d cleared out the bathroom cabinet. She looked at Eileen.