The Train, Sarah Bourne [dark books to read .txt] 📗

and chat about the plants and what they might be used for. It was so much more interesting than the cemetery or her local park with its patchy grass and uneven paths that might cause an old lady to fall.

Iris took her tea over to the bench and gazed around contentedly. This place soothed her. She and Reg had returned time and time again to wander along the paths, share a pot of Earl Grey, dream of visiting the places the plants had come from: Australia, the West Indies, China. So many places they’d never been. One day Reg had found a label on a small bush stating its origin as Devon, England. ‘We’ll go there, shall we, and see where this little specimen came from?’

Iris had laughed so hard she almost fell sideways off the seat. ‘Exotic Devon,’ she managed to gasp out eventually, and Reg took her hand and said, very seriously, ‘It may not be exotic, but if it’s capable of producing a little beauty like this, it’s good enough for the likes of you and me.’

Iris stopped laughing. She had to agree with him. They were ordinary people with ordinary needs; there was no point in going to the other end of the world when they had all they needed much closer at hand.

She sighed and got to her feet with the intention of going to find the little bush from Devon and pay her respects, but she felt dizzy and had to sit down again and wait till it passed.

‘Are you okay?’

Iris turned to a woman standing to her left with a floppy straw hat and soil-streaked gardening gloves in one hand. Mei-Ling had asked if she was all right too. Did she suddenly look older or less capable because of what had happened at Laura’s?

She pulled her shoulders back and lifted her chin, looked at the gardener and smiled. ‘I’m fine, thank you, dear. Just got up too quickly.’

The woman nodded and went back to her work.

Iris sat a while longer, gathering her thoughts. She didn’t want people thinking she was a feeble old woman who needed their help. She didn’t want to be a feeble old woman who needed their help. She could think of nothing worse than being dependent on others, which was perhaps why she’d been so dismayed when Laura had made her suggestion and so shocked at the reason why.

She shook her head to rid herself of thoughts of her daughter; she didn’t want to spoil her time in the gardens. Two men had taken a table close to her bench and were talking quietly, heads almost touching. Iris couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they started laughing, and one lay his hand over his friend’s in a moment so intimate Iris had to look away again. They reminded her of Barry and his friend, Luke.

Her phone rang, and she fished in her bag to look at the screen. A picture of Laura’s face stared at her from behind blue-framed glasses. Iris gasped and dropped the phone back into her bag. She wasn’t ready to talk to her daughter. She stood again, more slowly this time, steadied herself for a moment against the back of the bench, her hand resting on the brass plaque, then made her way to the exit. The Devon shrub would have to wait for another day.

Out on the street again, she walked slowly to the bus stop. She considered going to see her son at work since she was in town, but decided against it. He didn’t like her visiting unannounced, especially at the office. She sighed. Once upon a time Barry had loved being with her. They’d gone to the cinema together, and for walks. He’d lived at home until he was twenty-seven, saving to buy his own house, the one he was still in. He didn’t like change. Her friends had all told her she and Reg should make him leave, but she liked having him there. The house felt empty when he left. And that was when Reg was still alive. Now it felt like a morgue. Friends had suggested she sell the house and move to Margate, or Whitstable maybe. She and Reg had talked about it before he died. But she knew she’d never leave now. She knew all the neighbours, even the young ones who were moving in as the old ones died off or went into homes. It wasn’t the same anymore, but it was home.

She was suddenly exhausted and decided to take a taxi home and not have to wait for the bus. Her ankles were swollen and her shoes rubbed. She hated her body letting her down.

‘Don’t you start feeling sorry for yourself, Iris, old girl,’ she said to herself. ‘Give in to self-pity and you’re on the slippery slide.’

‘Sorry?’ The woman next to her at the bus stop looked concerned.

Iris didn’t realise she’d been talking out loud. She apologised, and shut her mouth firmly. She didn’t want anyone thinking she was a lunatic, talking away to herself. Mary had been taken to some sort of institution and never come home again. That was two or maybe three years ago. Iris had seen her son a few months after Mary had disappeared, and he’d told her his mum had Alzheimer’s. Terrible thing to happen to someone. Mary was younger than her. Iris had been terrified for weeks that she was forgetting things and would be put away too.

Half an hour later she let herself in her front door. Relief at being home overcame her, and her eyes felt watery.

‘Charlie!’ she called as soon as she was inside. ‘Charlie, I’m home.’

She found him asleep on the sofa, snoring. Sitting next to him, she put a hand on his back gently so as not to cause alarm, and shook him awake.

‘Charlie, I’m home. How have you been?’

He looked at her with mournful eyes, then looked away.

‘Don’t be like that, Charlie. I’ve had an awful time.