David Mitchell: The Book of Other People

‘We can’t believe it ourselves.’

‘This is… well… your brother… when’s the funeral?’

‘The funeral?’

‘Olly and I were lovers, Leo! How can I not come to the funeral?’

‘I’m… I’m afraid we’ve already had the funeral.’

‘ Already? ’

‘This morning. Very low-key. I tipped his ashes off the Cobb.’

‘Off the what?’

‘The Cobb. The sea-wall at Lyme Regis.’

‘Oh. The Cobb. Yes. Olly promised to take me there… for the sunset. Tomorrow night. The sunset. Oh. This is all… so… so… dead ?’

‘Dead.’

‘The very least I can do is to come and help out.’

‘Judith, you’re an angel, and Olly spoke about you in the fondest possible terms, but, if I can be frank, best not to. Everything’s very… intense. You understand, don’t you? There’re relatives to be told, an ex-wife, and then the business to be wound up, solicitors… mountains of paperwork… insurance, wills, powers of attorney… a thousand-and-one things… it just never stops…’

Camilla’s holidaying in Portugal with her father and Fancy-Piece. I got through to her voicemail and left the bare bones of my tragedy. Watering my tomato plants calmed me, until I spotted some green-fly. The vile little things got a good drenching with aphid killer. Then it was the turn of those ants who have colonized my patio. Kettle after kettle after kettle I boiled, until their bodies covered the crazy paving like a spilt canister of commas. Suddenly I found myself sitting in the conservatory with Evita playing at an unpleasant volume. Olly admitted that Sir Andrew turns out a fine tune. It was one of the last things he said to me. ‘Another Suitcase in Another Hall’ came on and suddenly my eyes streamed, unstoppably. This weekend was to have been a new beginning. Seeing Olly’s studio; meeting his family; making love with a sea-breeze caressing the curtains. After so many limp introductions and dashed hopes, here, at last, was a man whose faults could be mended. Some brisk walks to flatten that paunch. A tactful word to get him to ditch that moustache. Some musicals to oust his ‘electric folk’ tendencies. That Olly and I were intellectual equals was no surprise: Soulmate Solutions don’t let any old Tom, Dick and Harry sign up. But at our rendezvous in Bath, he couldn’t hide how utterly enchanté he was with little old moi on a carnal level. Once over fifty, most British women go to seed, leaving the rest of us to arise, like roses in a bombsite.

I swerved my Saab into the last parking space at the clinic, to the fury of some Flash Harriet who thought she had a prior claim. Water off a duck’s back. To my dismay, my bookshop was open but devoid, apparently, of all life. Winnifred was in the stock room, busy with a sneezing fit, so I manned the till and started sifting the morning’s post: three invoices; one tax form; two CVs from great white hopes after Saturday jobs; a letter informing the recipient that he has won a mansion in Fiji via the lottery – for every blatant scam, there are a thousand halfwits who refuse to understand that nobody gives money away – and a postcard from Barry from Grainge-over-Sands, the asylum-seeker’s detention centre of the soul. An Australian came in and asked for The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency , so I got chatting, and soon persuaded Milly from Perth to buy the Alexander McCall Smith box set. She left, and Winnifred saw fit to put in an appearance. Winnifred is a lesbian myopic vegan Welsh homoeopathic Pooh Bear sort of a woman.

‘Judith! What can we… do for you today?’

‘Re-order the Ladies’ Detective Agency box set, for starters. We’re still a martyr to our hayfever, aren’t we?’

‘But… you do remember, Judith, don’t you… that, actually…’

‘That actually what , Winnifred?’

‘… you aren’t actually employed here… any more. Not as such.’

‘ Some one has to keep on top of things, with Barry swanning off while the town is swimming with holidaymakers. If that last customer had been one of those gypsies – whoops, it’s “travellers” nowadays, isn’t it? – you’d have an empty shop by now. Think on.’

‘But… Barry’s probably not… expecting… to actually pay you.’

‘Am I dressed like I worry about next week’s rent?’

‘Judith… Barry did say that if you came in, I should ask you to – ’

‘Oliver’s dead, Winnifred.’ The words burst out of me. ‘My… my beau. Dead.’

Winnifred took a step back. ‘Oh, Judith !’

‘My soul-mate.’ A sob swallowed me whole. ‘Hit-and-run.’

‘Oh, Judith !’

‘Really, the irony is too much to bear. Olly was going to introduce me to his family, tomorrow . Show me how to hunt fossils together. Share ice-cream on the Cobb. Consummate our relationship. Such… dreadful tidings… I wasn’t sure to whom I could turn…’

‘Oh, Judith. Sit down. I’ll fetch a cup of tea.’

‘The theatre committee need me in thirty minutes, but I could find a little time for a sympathetic ear… Earl Grey, then, with a slice of lemon, if it’s not too much trouble.’

My Amateur Dramatics Society is putting on Sir Andrew’s The Phantom of the Opera in October, so rehearsals are well under way. Our director, Roger, gave the lead to June Nolan, wife of Terry Nolan. All Lions Clubbers together. Very cosy. Never mind that June Nolan has all the operatic elegance of a dog-trainer. I turned down a minor role, and focused on stage-management. Let others grapple for glory. My job is thankless, and hectic; like I told Olly, if Muggins here didn’t do it, the whole place would fall apart in a week.

Tears welled up again as I unlocked my little theatre. Olly was to visit me for Phantom ’s opening night. Everyone, this is Oliver Dunbar, a very dear friend. Runs a studio in Dorset, but he’s exhibited in New York City, no less. Oh, ignore Mr Modesty! Olly’s photography is very highly sought after .

In the kitchen, silence swelled up. Butterflies fussed on the nodding buddleia outside. A divine July, but someone hadn’t put the window key back where it lives, so I couldn’t air the place. I began a round of pelvic-floor exercises. Somewhere nearby, a car alarm was going on and on and on and on and on and on , like an incurable migraine. God, I des pise people who can’t set their car alarms properly. I despise Fancy-Piece’s pleased-to-see-you smile. I despise liver cooked in cream.

Where the hell was everyone?

‘June, where the hell is everyone?’

‘Who is this and where the hell is who?’

What sort of actress doesn’t know her who s from her whom s?

‘Judith, of course. Doesn’t your mobile tell you who’s calling? Didn’t have you down as a technophobe, June. Let me show you how. Then you’ll always know who’s trying to reach you.’

‘I know perfectly well how to do it, thank you, Judith. Your number isn’t programmed in, for some bizarre reason.’

‘Well, I’m here at the theatre and not a soul has shown up for the meeting, and if people think they can put on a musical worthy of the name with this level of commitment, they – ’

‘The meeting was yesterday.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The meeting was yesterday.’

‘Since when were Phantom meetings held on a Thursday?’

‘Since last meeting. Nadine couldn’t make it this Friday, so Janice switched it to Thursday. Don’t you remember?’

‘No wonder people get muddled, if days get swapped around at the drop of a – ’