Hit and Run, Maria Frankland [books like harry potter txt] 📗

has two left. He’s been playing in the street on his micro scooter, then coming in moaning that it can’t do the same things as the stunt scooters that the slightly older boys in the street have.

I trudge around the supermarket, throwing in other items for his birthday, small gifts to open; chocolate, a frisbee, a DVD. Then some party decorations, and a birthday cake. I’ve hardly shopped for over a week, so I fill the trolley up.

The neighbours have been wonderful in leaving the odd casserole and shopping basics on the doorstep, but they don’t think about things like Jack’s Nutella, breakfast cereal and biscuits.

As I unload the bags into the Jeep, I feel a sense of normality. Outwardly, there’s no difference between me and the other women loading their cars up.

I have a flashback to when I used to shop with Grandma. I recall millionaire shortcake, Appletize and Turkish Delight. If I hadn’t had her in my life, I’d be even more messed up. I hate being my mother’s daughter. A part of me wishes she’d disappear back with that Shane and leave us all alone. She wants the best of all worlds – I’ve never known anybody so selfish.

I’ve nearly arranged my husband’s funeral. I couldn’t feel any less normal. Only when it is over, can any sort of order return.

* * *

The not knowing is killing me.

Pardon the pun.

Things are quiet. Too quiet.

Perhaps this is the calm before the storm.

Chapter 35

I don’t know what I would do without Dad. I’ve woken late, so he’s got Jack dressed and breakfasted. He’s taken him to school, so the house is in silence.

I’m sleeping like I’m dead. Each morning I have a moment when it could be just another day, then within a minute, reality smacks me around the head. It’s nearly forty-eight hours since I was at the police station. I may have to take matters into my own hands if I don’t hear from them soon.

I reach for my phone and see that there’s nine plus Facebook notifications. It’s the usual stuff. Top man – will be sadly missed … condolences to Fiona and Jack… Gone too soon. RIP… So sorry to hear this awful news, sending love to the family. And on, and on. I click ‘like’ next to each one in acknowledgement, though it’s them, they are enabling to feel better with these condolence messages, not me.

I decide I should probably write something. It would be expected. Under all the comments, I put. Thanks for all the messages of condolence at this awful time – they mean a lot. Funeral details to be announced on Rob’s page.

I go through to his page and type: Funeral Announcement. A celebration of Rob Matherson’s life will be held this Friday, 19th June at 11:30 am. It will take place at Rawdon Crematorium, followed by…

I haven’t even thought about that. I stop typing and think. The golf club. I search for Otley Golf Club and hit call. The lady who answers couldn’t be more sympathetic when I say who I am and why I’m calling.

“How many mourners are you expecting Mrs Matherson?”

“I’m not sure to be honest. Fifty maybe.”

“Rob was really popular here,” she says. “He will be so missed by everyone. I think there could be at least thirty or so of his golf club friends wanting to be there – they’ve even had a whip around for you.”

“Really?” This brings tears to my eyes. I never expected that. Maybe it will cover the cost of the wake.

As if she is a mind reader, she says, “And as Rob was such a valued member of this club, I’d like to offer the room free, and give you a twenty percent discount on the catering. We’re so sorry for your loss Mrs Matherson. We’ve all been so shocked about it.”

I gulp. “Thank you. I don’t know what to say. You’re very kind. I guess I’d better ask you to cater for around seventy then. He was an active member of his cycle club too. He lived for his golf and cycling.”

“I’m sure he lived for you and your little boy as well.” She pauses. “What time do you think you’ll arrive? I’ll have everything set up in advance and get extra bar staff on so I can come to the service too.”

My ears inadvertently prick up at the mention of the word bar. It’s an ingrained response. In fact, if I bring to mind the funerals I have had to attend with Rob over the years, I’ve always ended up sozzled. Even when I attended one for his colleague with him, someone who I had never even met! I’ll never forget the disapproving glare of Phillip Bracken. I had felt like a naughty schoolgirl. This had encouraged me all the more.

I end the call and return to writing the Facebook announcement.

…followed by a wake at Otley Golf Club. Family flowers only please. A donation plate will be made available to collect funds for Shelter UK.

I don’t even need to think about the choice of charity. I know Shelter isn’t connected with Rob’s death, but it’s the charity I always support, given the choice. Their outreach service gave me so much help when I was on my uppers in my late teens, even sorting me a hostel place for a time. Then they helped me get my own supported tenancy and put me on a substance misuse programme. I’d have probably been dead without them. I’m lucky I crawled back from that time in my life. No thanks to my dear mother.

Dad and I have since discussed it; he feels dreadful that I sank so low as to have been homeless, and heavily alcohol dependent at such a young age. When I first left home at sixteen, unbeknown to Mum, Dad met me a few times; he would give me money and take me for