THE LAST PARTY

Photo by Georgia Mashford on Unsplash

‘Our cancellation policy is clear, Mrs Grey… No, I am happy for you, overjoyed one might go so as far as to say, but it is in our terms and conditions… you understand… I’m sorry too that you didn’t read the small print, but the print isn’t that small…’

The line went dead as it always did when a customer realised there would be no arguing their way out of payment. People were more unreasonable by the year. Marion put that down to the modern mindset; the Western World a spoilt child demanding more for less. Maybe she should move to North Korea? They might be more grateful for the service she provided.

There was a time when Marion had enthusiasm for the job, bent over backwards to make a loved-one’s special day something to die for (or at the very least) soon afterwards. But now, with life-hacks, there were last minute reprieves and no one wanted to pay for a hot air balloon or Morris dancers once Grandpa got more years to bore everyone to death from the comfort of his armchair. She never received any thanks for the work she put in, just ‘Can I have a refund since the grilled aubergine cured the skin cancer?’ Well, no, you bloody can’t. Spoilt children, the lot of them.

Outside, a storm shook the trees and discombobulated the birds – autumn in summer – at least the weather knew how to move through the seasons quickly nowadays, unlike humanity. Last week, driving home, she nearly hit an octogenarian jogger stumbling his bag of bones up a hill in the middle of the road. What was the point? Honestly!

Marion was lamenting the progress of science, taking solace in antibiotic resistance when –

‘Happy birthday!’

That irksome northern accent that made every sentence sound like a song; the pink hair and flowers that bounded into the office. Marion shivered at the sight of her privacy rushing from the room through the open door.

‘Hello Betty.’ She didn’t bother to turn and face her.

Bloody Sainsbury’s check-out queues. Three months ago, herded into a line amongst braying families and other low-life’s, she was clutching her weekly supply of whisky when the creature with bright pink hair in front announced that Marion could go first because, ‘You’ve just got a single lady’s basket, whereas I’ve got the weekly shop for an old bird. Trouble walking. Dodgy knee. Bet you know how that feels?’

A do-gooder; oh, do shut up!

‘I’ve got too much free time on my hands.’ Her laugh was worse than a car alarm. ‘Need a real job. What do you do?’

Marion just wanted to buy her essentials and get out of there, but she was trapped between a toddler standing up in a shopping trolley gesticulating like Mussolini and this cartoon of a woman who wouldn’t stop smiling at her as if they were friends; eyes operatically wide, eager to know Marion much better in the short minutes that they were stuck there. Even the check-out person raised an eyebrow in anticipation of her autobiography. There seemed no way out other than to be civil.

‘I’m a party planner.’ Surely that was enough. Marion shuffled forwards trying to get the girl to start unloading an ungodly amount of tinned soup and toilet roll. But no, by the rotating palm and the universal sign for ‘And?’, it seemed the meddler required more. The queue huffed in unison. Unbearable.

‘I am the CEO of Living Funerals.’

‘That’s you? I’ve seen the billboard by the car park. “Laugh in the Face of Death.” Cooool. Dark, but cooool.’

Were so many o’s in one word acceptable?

‘Do you need a sidekick? A Robin to your Batman, “Kick The Grim Reaper’s arse one knees-up at a time?”’

It wasn’t a bad catchphrase come to think of it.

‘I do not.’ Marion told the unopened whisky bottle.

‘Tell you what, take my number. Making people feel at ease is my fortaaaay.’

Marion highly doubted that. The way the girl winked, like she knew Marion and preferred the nearly dead over the living, was unnerving. Marion capitulated, if only to get away from prying eyes and the car alarm laugh that made her want to commit more than theft.

Back in the safety of her cottage, watching the sun bow out behind the rose bushes, she sipped whisky – perhaps one too many whiskies in hindsight – and contemplated a life without messy human interaction. Having weighed up the pros and cons of being around that laugh and the big chattering mouth that was painted the same colour as her ludicrous hair, Marion did something spontaneous for once.

Now here, stuffing a large bouquet of flowers in a vase, was the consequence of that spontaneity.

‘I hate birthdays – and you’re late.’

‘Sorry Scrooge, I was checking in on the widower from that job with the doves.’

‘Left faeces all over the interior of the van.’

‘But it was sort of sweet they wouldn’t leave his side, like they knew he’d be lonely.’

Loneliness: A by-product of grief that was utterly avoidable if you just used diligence and common sense. There was always something to keep one distracted – books, a fine malt, sleep.

Betty dumped the flowers in front of Marion like a vet delivering a calf. Marion kept her head down and studied the large party planner.

‘Thank you.’ The words like a tooth extraction without anaesthetic.

‘My pleasure. And later I’ve reserved a cream tea at that place you like.’

‘No. No thank you. To work. There’s been another cancellation. The Dracula-themed day on the cliffs.’

‘That’s a shame.’

‘The man in question tried Lion’s Mane mushrooms and has gone into remission.’

‘Grrreat news.’

For God’s sake! Was Marion the only one who understood profit and loss? When Betty replaced butterfly clips for a mortgage and pension, she’d understand. Marion could tell her they were two cancelled jobs away from Betty moving back in with that overbearing mother she bleated on about – but hesitated. This was what happened. You let people in and they brought with them their stories, their connection like a virus. Perhaps the heat under Marion’s skin was exactly that? Her association with this person could well be making her ill.

‘Betty, do you have a cold?’

‘No, why?’

‘No matter.’

There was no time for illness, real or imagined, there was Mrs Jones’s enactment of Tutankhamun’s embalming to focus on. Until Betty broke the silence with, ‘I got a call last night as I was closing from…’ She consulted her phone, ‘Adam Opspan? He said to wish you a happy 65th and wanted to book in for his party ASAP.’

Marion dropped her fountain pen on the desk. Damned arthritis!

‘Marion? You OK?’

The weather rolled towards the window; her calendar and all the days she had mapped out with other people’s ends went into soft focus. Betty’s voice became muffled, black clouds snuck in under the glass and enveloped her neat pile of invoices.

‘Marion, you’re breathing funny.’

When Marion came to on the floor, one of Betty’s butterfly clips was scratching her nose. The girl seemed to be trying to kiss her.

‘What on earth are you doing?’

‘Giving you mouth-to-mouth.’

‘Well don’t!’

Marion sat up and wiped her brow. Sweat. Life virus.

‘You stopped breathing. Passed out.’ Betty removed one of Marion’s grey hairs from her mouth. The girl looked spooked. Marion coughed away the unpleasantness of responsibility.

‘I was practising that breath work nonsense you constantly twitter on about. I may have got a tad carried away.’

Betty was so distracted by the ‘excellent news’ that her boss was ‘connecting with her inner self’ she didn’t notice Marion’s hands shaking. Marion nibbled on a resuscitating Mars Bar while Betty bent over and busied herself with a tutorial on the correct way for Marion to breathe into her anus.

‘Call him back and say we are overbooked.’ The caramel was making the words stick to the roof of her mouth.

‘But Dracula cancelled,’ Betty said from between her legs.

‘There will be other bloodsuckers.’

‘He said “Money’s no object.”’

How had he found her? It had been forty years since she’d packed her half of their life into bin bags and met him in the doorway of their top floor flat. She had hoped he’d only see the note, but he was back early, enthusing about an interview that had gone well. Leaving was imperative or she would change her mind for the tenth time. She pushed past him, saying, ‘You just need to get on with it now.’ The bottle of wine he’d been holding dropped to the floor spilling blood red down the concrete stairs. She hadn’t explained a damned thing. There was no adequate explanation for the crushing weight on her shoulders or the sadness she felt when she looked into his eyes. All she could be certain of was that when she accelerated away, she’d felt free, finally empty of the love that was choking her. If she left him, then he couldn’t die on her. It had made sense at the time. Logical extraction.

‘Old flame, eh?’ Betty jabbed Marion in the ribs with a playful elbow.

‘Enough!’

‘He was an odd one. He said –’

‘I don’t want to hear what he said.’

‘You’ll like this – he wants to meet in a park and reminisce. After a while he wants someone to appear singing, ‘You’ve got a friend in me’ – I’ve an ace singing voice, you haven’t heard me sing.’

Betty cleared her throat.

‘I don’t ever want to. Unacceptable.’

‘But –’

‘It simply cannot be done. He will have to look elsewhere’

‘But Marion…’

‘Ignore his calls. Get on with the sheep-shearing job in the Highlands. They want to make a Viking shroud for Mrs O’Brien. She’s a big lady, so get more sheep than you think we’ll need.’

For the foreseeable future Betty was to answer the phone, the emails and if Mr Opspan called again she was to say that the diary was full. Then Marion took the only path open to her; she went home, hugged a bottle of amber comfort and slept for a week.

He didn’t leave her alone there either. Popping into her dreams with his talk of futures and adventures – and ever present was the need to know. Probably prostate, that’s what got most men. He’d have sired five children with some barefooted beauty, someone who had looked after him properly. It was what she had hoped for, the story she had given him. Each day she Googled, “Cures for prostate cancer”. Lion’s Mane was not a bad idea as it turned out.

She stayed hidden in her cottage, where no one would notice a woman unravelling, no one except Betty, of course, who popped over each day to check she was not succumbing to ‘The Whisky Bug.’

‘Whatever your surmising, I can assure you this is flu and you should probably stay away for a while. Far, far away,’ Marion slurred. But there was little that could be done to stop the ball of optimism rolling into her sanctuary, a glass of orange juice here, a back rub there. She even changed her bed linen when Marion let her guard down and finally took a shower.

‘I tell you what, you need to invest in something more floral and perhaps a little softer,’ Betty said, her tone suggesting she wasn’t just referring to the bedding.

On day six, Betty was struggling with Marion’s ironing board when she told the air, ‘So, he called again.’

‘What did I tell you?’ Marion didn’t say but hoped her expression conveyed the warning.

‘“Heart failure”, he said. “Inoperable”, he said, “Any day now,” he said.’

The invasion of it all.

‘Marion, you’re doing the funny breathing thing again.’

‘I am sure his family has everything in hand.’

‘Well, here’s the thing, there is no family. No wife, no kids. He made it crystal clear that I should pass that on.’

‘Well, let’s hope it’s quick, and soon.’

The ironing board stomped down onto the slate tiles like a child mid-tantrum.

‘Just what is your problem?’ Betty sounded way too tired and not at all pink-haired, as if Marion had dragged all she was made of into the gutter and poured petrol on it. This simply wouldn’t do. Marion stood up and went to close the ironing board. There was a tussle and despite her weak arms, Marion won.

‘Contrary to what you might think, I’m not in the habit of sharing the intimate details of my life with staff. It’s none of your business what this man is in relation to me. When you’ve lived a little longer you will understand that some things should remain firmly in the past. Stop interfering and put down that mop! The floors are perfectly clean.’

They stared at the stone tiles coated in fine dust. Betty looked flummoxed as she hovered over the sink with the bucket.

‘If you’re not helping people, you have no purpose young lady. It is quite an unsavoury character trait and, frankly speaking, selfish. People’s gratitude will never fill the gaping hole you have inside.’

‘Says the emptiest person I know.’

Betty put her palm to her lips, as if shocked by the rudeness she did not know she possessed. She grabbed her patchwork bag, slung it over her shoulder and headed for the front door.

Finally.

But no.

‘I lied. He didn’t call. He came to the office. That’s right. Strolled right in. And you know what made me think I best try and persuade you to stop being such a cantankerous old cow? He gave me this.’  

She rummaged in her bag and threw an old photograph across the kitchen table. Two smiling children: same height, same curly red hair and wearing the same beige dungarees. Embracing, as if conjoined. Marion stroked the picture, trying to make sense of the twisting in her stomach, the tears wiping the dusty windscreen of her life.

Betty at least had the good grace not to interrogate her, she simply plonked down her bag, touched Marion’s trembling shoulders and said, ‘Let’s have a brew. How’s about a nice, toasted crumpet to go with it?’

Toasted crumpets had been his favourite – lashings of butter – his chubby face covered in grease, wiping fingers on his top much to their mother’s horror who constantly cleaned his cheeks with a damp flannel – tutting and baking, baking and tutting. There’d never been enough butter for the boy.

Their mother held on as long as you could but left them alone in the world the day after they legally became adults. The night before, she made Marion promise to look after her twin as if that request had ever been needed. But the abandonment of it all, the life leaving her eyes, the yellow of her paper-thin skin, the fury Marion had felt, and who would look after her and her grief?

‘Death comes to us all,’ was the only comfort her mother had had for her.

After the funeral and the mourners had faded into life’s background, muted like outlines in a painting, Marion made sure there was an endless supply of butter in the fridge. She watched her brother comfort eat his way out of the pain. A slab here, a tub there to seal the wound. He got fat while she got thinner, transferring all her energy ameliorated his pain. She was the reason he was dying. She had been the enabler.

She hated Death and had made it her life’s mission to laugh in its void-filled face: see how little I care if you come? There’s no one left you can take from me. I throw parties to celebrate you coming. I don’t cower, you thieving bastard. And now, inevitably Death was coming for revenge.

‘I need to lie down again.’

‘OK. but we have the thing with the puppies at the leisure centre tomorrow.’

‘I’ll be there.’

‘Will you call him back?’

‘Oh, Betty.’

‘Is that a “yes”?’

‘It’s a maybe.’

As Betty went to turn the latch on Marion’s front door, the words jumped out of her mouth before she could control them.

‘Why are you here, Betty? I’m obviously not a nice person.’

‘Dunno. Maybe I’m saving your life. It is a beautiful thing, you know. Life.’

With a wink (and a frankly invasive kiss on the top of Marion’s head) Betty bounded out of the cottage, not shutting the door properly – irksome. Marion poured a large whisky. She should really close the door before the flies got in to keep her company but for now, while she drank her tipple and allowed the minx of memory to frolic in her mind, she’d leave it open, just for now.