“Um . . . ,” he said, then, panicking that Cameron would take his hesitation to mean something might be wrong, quickly followed up with, “They’re fine. Just all good, really. Listen . . .” He got to his feet. “. . . I’ve actually got loads to do, so I better get back to it. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, well if you’re—”
“Sorry,” Andrew said again, nearly tripping over an errant throw on the floor as he hurried away, feeling suddenly short of breath, just making it to the toilets in time to cough up bile into the sink.
—
That evening, he chatted with BamBam, TinkerAl, and BroadGaugeJim, and tried not to think about what had happened with Cameron. It had been terrifying to go blank like that. Maybe he was just rustier than usual because his focus had been on Peggy. The closer he’d gotten to her, the more distant Diane had become. He’d neglected his “family,” the people he relied on for support, and the guilt he felt was deep and real. The strength of the feeling was horribly troubling. This. Isn’t. Normal, he told himself, digging his fingernails into his thigh.
He felt bad for interrupting the current subforum conversation (Which type of rubberized horsehair is best for creating bush scenery?), but there was nowhere else for him to turn.
Chaps, not to bring the mood down, but remember when I told you about that person who I was starting to get along with really well? It turns out there was something more than just friendship there, but now I’ve blown it.
BroadGaugeJim: Sorry to hear that, T. What happened?
Tracker: It’s a bit complicated. There’s someone else in her life. But that’s not even the main problem. Basically, I’ve been holding something back from her, and I know that if I come clean she’ll probably never talk to me again.
BamBam67: Yikes, that does sound rather serious.
TinkerAclass="underline" Tricky one, mate. What I would say is maybe you should just be honest with her? Maybe you’re right—she might never talk to you again, but if there’s even the smallest chance she’ll be okay with it, then isn’t that worth fighting for? This time in a week you could be together! Bit of a cliché I know, but isn’t it better to have loved and lost, and all that???
The discordant “Blue Moon” arrived in an instant, and the screeching feedback and stabbing at Andrew’s temples was so severe that he had to slide to the floor and clap his hands to his head, drawing his knees up to his chest, waiting for the pain to subside.
—
He slept fitfully that night. He’d developed an earache and a raw, scratchy throat, and his body was starting to ache all over. As he lay awake in the early morning, listening to the rain hammering at the window, he thought of Peggy, and wondered whether he’d caught this cold off her, or just a stranger.
— CHAPTER 23 —
Peggy was still off sick the following day. Andrew had texted her asking if she was feeling better, but there was no reply.
The cold he’d caught had evolved into something that sapped him of energy but left him too uncomfortable to sleep. Instead, he sat shivering or sweating under a duvet watching mindless action films, the moral of each story appearing to be if you drive a car fast enough a lady will take her top off.
He was halfway to work the following morning, feeling like he was trudging through thick mud, when he suddenly remembered it was the day of Alan Carter’s funeral. He forced himself to turn back and flag down a taxi.
The vicar—a squat man with piggy eyes—greeted him at the church’s entrance.
“Relative?”
“No, council,” Andrew said, glad that he wasn’t a relative given the brusqueness of how the vicar had spoken to him.
“Ah yes, of course,” the vicar said. “Well, there’s one lady inside. But it doesn’t look like anyone else is coming so we better crack on.” He raised a fist to his mouth to cover a burp, his cheeks bulging like a frog’s neck.
Beryl was sitting in the front row of the empty church. Andrew tucked his shirt in and flattened his hair down as he walked up the aisle. “Hello, dear,” Beryl said when he arrived at her side. “Gosh, are you okay? You look ever so peaky.” She put the back of her hand to his forehead.
“I’m fine,” Andrew said. “A bit tired, that’s all. How are you?”
“Not so bad, pet,” Beryl said. “Have to say, it’s been a long time since I’ve been in a church.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m not exactly a believer in the beardy bloke upstairs. Neither was Alan, truth be told. I’m sure he’d have found all this palaver funny, really. Is Peggy coming, do you know?”
“I don’t think so, I’m afraid,” Andrew said, looking back toward the door just in case. “She’s really poorly, unfortunately. But she sends her love.”
“Oh well, not to worry,” Beryl said. “More for the rest of us.”
Andrew couldn’t think what Beryl meant until he looked down to see she was holding an open Tupperware box full of fairy cakes. After a moment’s hesitation, he took one.
The vicar appeared and stifled another belch, and Andrew feared the worst about the sermon, but thankfully the vicar’s delivery was heartfelt enough. The only blip in the service came when a man wearing a baseball cap and waterproof trousers—a gardener, Andrew presumed—shunted the church door open and whispered, “Oh bollocks,” just loudly enough for them to hear before slipping back out.
Beryl remained composed throughout. Perhaps because Andrew had more of a personal investment than usual, he listened intently to the vicar’s words and, to his intense embarrassment, found himself on the verge of tears. He felt a wave of shame hit him—he hadn’t ever met this man; it wasn’t his place to cry. And yet that guilt only made things worse and eventually he was unable to stop a single tear from spilling down onto each of his cheeks. Luckily, he managed to wipe them away before Beryl saw. He’d have to blame his cold if she said anything about his puffy eyes.
As the vicar asked them to join him in reciting the Lord’s Prayer, the realization suddenly came to Andrew that he hadn’t been crying for Alan, or even for Beryl, but for the future version of himself, his death unmourned at a service in a drafty church with only the walls to receive the vicar’s perfunctory words.
—
They said polite if stiff good-byes to the vicar (“I don’t trust men with handshakes that firm—you have to think they’re overcompensating for something,” Beryl said) and were walking arm in arm along the churchyard path when Andrew asked Beryl whether she needed accompanying back to the station. “Don’t worry, love. I’m actually visiting a couple of old friends. ‘Old’ being the operative word; I think they’ve got about seven teeth between them these days, Sheila and Georgie.”
They’d reached the end of the path. The wind was rushing through the branches of the imposing yew tree that stood just inside the churchyard walls. They were only in mid-September, but the sublime August day in Northumberland seemed a long time ago.
“You got time for a cuppa before I go?” Beryl said.
Andrew scratched at the back of his head. “Sadly not.”
“Time waits for no man, eh? Hang on, though.” Beryl scrabbled in her handbag and found a pen and paper. “I’m around for another few days. Give me your number. I’ve got my special old-lady mobile phone the size of a brick with me, so maybe we could meet up later in the week or something.”
“That would be lovely,” Andrew said.
Another gust of wind came, stronger this time. Beryl readjusted her hat and took Andrew by the hand.
“You’re a good man, Andrew, coming here today. I know my Alan would’ve appreciated that. Take care now.”