‘So he told me,’ said Felix.
‘It’s too bad,’ said Geoffrey. ‘We can’t afford to lose people. We’ve got so much work to do.’
‘Have we?’ said Felix, rather surprised.
‘Of course. We’re inundated.’
‘Inundated?’
‘Indeed,’ said Geoffrey. ‘We get twenty calls a week.’
Felix was surprised by the low number that Geoffrey considered inundation – especially as he knew not all of those would be deemed suitable clients. The Exiteers existed to support people with terminal illnesses and for whom pain meant their lives were no longer bearable. Geoffrey had told him long ago that they were not in the business of enabling anyone who was ‘just a bit fed up’.
Felix was disappointed that there was so little demand for their services, but then they were hardly advertising in the Yellow Pages. Theirs was a hush-hush operation accessed only by cautious word of mouth. It ran on instinct, trust and secrecy, and the fact that there were only twenty calls a week must mean there was a far wider need.
So he tempered his disappointment and asked, ‘And how many Exiteers are there?’
‘Seven,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Six now.’
Now Felix was truly surprised. He’d had no idea there were so few of them. He’d never dwelt on a number, but if he’d been pressed he’d have guessed at a hundred like-minded people dotted all around the country. But obviously he’d have been very wrong. Somehow he had always imagined himself to be a small part of a much bigger network. A cog in a reasonably sized machine. Not a battleship or a jet fighter, of course, but a steam traction engine, perhaps, or a church clock. It was rather disappointing to realize that he was more of a spring in a pop-up toaster.
Plus he felt a little miffed at being called Rob, if Geoffrey had the names of only seven precious front-liners to remember.
Six now.
But then he realized that even if Geoffrey did remember his name, it would be John, which wasn’t even the right name, so he took offence and forgave it all in the same moment. Felix was good at that. He’d had such big things to be upset by in life that it had become much easier to forgive the little ones.
Geoffrey sighed. ‘You’d be surprised how hard it is to find new volunteers. Many, many people support what we do, but very few actually want to do it. And many of those who do want to do it are just not . . . suitable.’
‘I can imagine,’ said Felix.
‘Indeed,’ said Geoffrey. ‘You just can’t be too careful with this sort of thing.’
‘Of course,’ said Felix. ‘So with whom will I work now?’
Exiteers always worked in pairs. Geoffrey said it was for emotional support, but Felix – ever the accountant – imagined it was so that nobody stole anything. Nearly all of his work had been done with Chris. Only on his first case had he been paired with a sprightly middle-aged woman called Wendy, who’d apparently died herself shortly thereafter. Geoffrey had told him she’d choked on a sweet during a yoga class, which Felix felt was so bizarre that it must be true.
‘I’ll take care of it,’ said Geoffrey, ‘and let you know.’
‘Thank you, Geoffrey.’
‘Night, John.’
Felix put the phone down and then called through to the lounge, ‘Garden, Mabel!’
The Loving Wife and Mother
Felix always wore his best suit to visit his wife and son. The navy pinstripe, with a white shirt and the blue-and-green Argyll tie Margaret had bought for him the last time she’d remembered Christmas.
Best bib and tucker. That’s what she’d call it. You didn’t hear that any more – or any of the old sayings. And the new ones were just f-words.
It was a perfect April morning. Sunny, but not too hot, and with a gentle breeze. Felix had bought flowers from the corner shop. They were yellow tulips and nice enough, but wrapped in layers of plastic and brown paper when all they really needed was a good old bit of garden twine to hold them together.
He opened the boot, took out his thermos flask and the fold-up camping chair and trudged up the hill.
Margaret and Jamie were buried side by side on the slope overlooking the whole town and, beyond that, the estuary. It was a lovely spot. Felix had paid for the original double plot close to the oak tree many years ago, but when Jamie died they had buried him here, and Felix had negotiated to purchase a third plot alongside the other two. The would-be occupant of that plot had recognized that behind Felix’s odd request was a man in want, while he himself was only a man in grudging need, and so had made an absolute killing on the deal, but Felix didn’t mind. He had enough money and little left to spend it on.
Now he took comfort in knowing that when he died he would take his place once more beside his wife and son.
He stood at the foot of the graves while a blackbird showed off in the nearby hedge.
‘Hello, Margaret,’ he murmured.
The blackbird answered him with a long, happy lungful, but Margaret’s headstone only said:
Loving wife and mother
Felix wished he’d chosen a different inscription. He’d seen this one in countless obituaries, and so – at a time of flux – it had felt safe to him. But increasingly he thought it made it sound as though a wife and mother was all Margaret had been, and that was very far from the truth – although it was only since her death that Felix had truly understood that she had been the sun, and he and Jamie just two little planets in her orbit, held in place by her gravity, lit by her light, and basking in her warmth.
Everybody had loved Margaret. They’d loved her kindness, and her wisdom, and her humour, and they’d deigned to like him too, just for being with her.
But when she’d started to leave him, her friends had left as well, until Felix had been entirely alone with Margaret. And then entirely alone without her, and by the time she had died, he’d been so exhausted that he could barely think. Her slow demise had been like a steamroller trying to run him down while he staggered from kerb to kerb, trying to dodge the inevitable. Often it felt almost as if he had died too, because all that was left now was a pale shadow of himself, hanging like limp lace at an airless window.
Without you I am nothing. That’s what he should have had set in stone.
At least they’d done right by Jamie . . .
TAKEN TOO SOON FROM THOSE
WHO LOVED HIM DEARLY
Dearly had been Margaret’s decision. Felix had never seen dearly on a headstone before and felt that it was rather showy. They’d argued about it. Rowed, actually. Now he thought of it, it had been the only proper row he and Margaret had ever had. The only time she’d got really angry about anything. But, of course, every time he looked down at the words now, he knew she’d been right, and that dearly was not only essential but was, in fact, the most important thing on the stone – and that he’d been unbearably stupid to think or say otherwise.
Margaret had been right about everything. He was still learning that every day. Whenever he was stuck or confused, Felix would ask himself, What would Margaret do? And the answer would come to him as if she was right there, whispering in his ear. Young and sensible Margaret, of course. Not old, sad Margaret, whose reason had deserted her and whose memory had gone and who would clutch his arm and say, Promise me! Promise me you’ll look after Jamie!
And he could only say I promise because she didn’t know that their son was already dead.
Felix emptied last week’s carnations into the hedge, then washed and refilled the plastic vase with water he’d brought in a bottle, and arranged the new tulips. He folded the