The Kicking the Bucket List: The feelgood bestseller of 2017
And then it was over. Twenty minutes and time’s up. Twenty minutes to sum up a life, then she’s out and the next one’s in. That can’t be it, can it? I’d thought. Eighty-seven years of a full and well-lived life ends with a few readings, a bit of music, a eulogy and a couple of lines from the vicar.
Doors at the back were opened and sunlight streamed back in. As the ushers motioned us to leave, a track began to play over the loudspeakers. ‘Wish Me Luck (As You Wave Me Goodbye.)’ Typical Mum. She would have wanted to leave us laughing, and it was that reminder of her sense of humour that brought the tears.
*
The gathering after the funeral was held at an old pub near Hampstead Heath where Rose had booked an upstairs room.
‘Weird to have a party where the guest of honour is missing,’ said Anna as we walked into the bar area, where a buffet had been laid out and which was already full of people drinking, talking, catching up.
‘True, and Mum did like a party. She’d have liked this, to have seen all her nearest and dearest in one place,’ I said. I wasn’t in the mood for making idle chatter, though: my sole aim there was to find Rose and Fleur. I knew that they would have been grieving as I had, and hoped that we could be some comfort to each other.
Rose was on autopilot on the other side of the room by a window, organizing, greeting, making sure people had drinks. I glimpsed Fleur over at the bar on her own, her back turned. I tried to make my way over but was waylaid by various people offering condolences and sandwiches for which I had no appetite.
After a short while, I saw Rose go out in the corridor.
‘I’m going to go and find Rose,’ I said to Anna.
‘Good. I’ll wait here,’ she replied, and she plonked herself down next to an old dear who looked like she didn’t know a soul.
I found Rose alone in the kitchen area. ‘Rose, can we talk?’
She barely looked at me. ‘Not the time or place,’ she said, then proceeded to issue an order to a waitress. I felt gutted by her response.
I went back into the main room and looked for Fleur at the bar, but she’d disappeared so I went back to Anna.
‘Any luck?’ she asked.
I shook my head. ‘Rose is too busy and I think Fleur may have gone. She never was one for family gatherings, unless she was the centre of attention.’
Anna squeezed my arm. ‘Don’t take it personally. Funerals are odd events. Nobody is ever quite themself.’
I wasn’t so sure. Rose and Fleur had acted exactly true to form as far as I’d seen. Not wanting to hang around any further, I’d looked for Rose to say goodbye and explain that I had a train to catch. She had been occupied serving tea to guests and seemed indifferent to me leaving before the gathering had dispersed. I’d left feeling hollow and sad that I’d found no solace with my sisters. You can choose your friends, but not your family. Who needs sisters? Not me, I’d thought as Anna and I headed for the station.
*
Anna poured more wine. ‘I know the funeral was hard for you Dee but it was difficult for all of you. Whatever your mum has planned for the next year is bound to be very different.’
‘True but maybe Rose has got the right idea,’ I said. ‘Why put yourself through it?’
‘Stop being so negative. Only the other day you were telling me that you wanted to follow your mum’s wishes so that you’d have extended contact with her. I can’t believe you’d give up so easily.’
‘I’m not the one giving up, Rose is.’
‘You are too if you don’t at least try and persuade her to participate.’
‘Rose can be stubborn and unmovable if she makes up her mind about something.’
‘So can you.’
‘You’re supposed to be my friend.’
‘I am and if I can’t tell you to snap out of this defeatist mood and try and get Rose on board, who can?’
‘You don’t know her like I do. If she’s decided not to do Mum’s list then there’s little I can do to persuade her.’
‘You’re being pathetic,’ said Anna.
‘And you’re being horrible.’
‘No I’m not. I’m telling you the truth. Call her when you get home.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Call her. Don’t be such a wimp.’
‘I hate you. You’re mean.’
‘I hate you more. Now. Would you like another glass of wine to go with your misery?’
7
Saturday 12 September
The agent from Scott Frank came just after breakfast. A young man with rosy cheeks, dressed in a sharp suit. ‘This will be an easy sell,’ he said after he’d been around the house leaving a trail of strong aftershave. ‘We’ll have a buyer in weeks.’
‘Are you certain? I thought this was a slow time for the property market,’ I said.
‘Oh no. I already have a waiting list of buyers in London looking for properties down here, especially ones as charming as this.’
*
Taylor and Knight came just before lunch. A middle-aged blonde woman in a navy trouser suit and silver jewellery. ‘It will get snapped up,’ she said, then sighed, ‘you’ve made it lovely. I’d buy it myself if I could.’
‘This won’t be on the market long,’ said the man from Chatham and Reeves who’d arrived early afternoon. He had an old-fashioned manner about him, was dressed in a tweed jacket and corduroy trousers and smelt slightly of burnt sausages. ‘Character, original features and the garden is established, perfect country-cottage style. Just what our buyers are looking for in locations like this.’
Nooooooooooooooooo, I thought.
*
Michael telephoned late afternoon. ‘Just to let you know that I’m going with Chatham and Reeves. They want to send a photographer round the day after tomorrow if that’s all right?’
‘I have no choice, have I?’
There was a silence on the other end of the phone. ‘I am sorry, Dee, but I hope you understand.’
‘I understand perfectly,’ I said as I looked at my Greek statue, which was still resplendent on the fireplace. A vision of where I could shove it came to mind as I hung up the phone.
*
Anna came over immediately on hearing my news.
‘You can stay in my spare room if the house sells quickly,’ she said.
I was touched by her offer, but I knew she used her spare room to store the vintage clothing she put up for sale on the Internet, and to make the jewellery she sold. Her daughters also slept there when they visited, which was often, plus she had a constant stream of visitors. I’d cramp her style if I lived there with her. ‘Thanks, Anna, but you use that room,’ I replied, ‘and much as I love you, we might drive each other mad if we lived together. I don’t want to run that risk. I’ll find a room in the village when the time comes: that’s my best option.’
‘But not yet,’ said Anna. ‘House sales take months, and that’s if there’s a buyer straight away. Come on Dee, buck up, you’re acting like a victim. You do have a choice. We always have a choice.’
‘Stop being so positive. It’s annoying.’
‘Now you’re talking like Mrs Rowley in the shop,’ said Anna. ‘You know I’m right. You have to fight. Don’t just roll over and accept what’s happening like you have no say in it. Fight to get Rose on board. Fight to keep your house.’
‘OK. How?’
Anna looked blank. ‘I don’t know. I’m just full of lines from self-help books that I’ve read over the years. They never covered specifics. You know the kind – Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway. How To Stop Worrying and Start Living. Kick Your Crutch and Walk Free. Those kind of books.’
If nothing else, Anna always made me laugh.
*
‘Dear God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference,’ I said to the ceiling when Anna had gone. She was right, I thought. I have to fight for my home. If I can just keep any prospective buyers at bay for a year, I will get my inheritance, be able to stay here and all will be well. In the meantime … My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a text coming through. I looked at my mobile but didn’t recognize the number. It read: ‘Winner or loser? Hero or victim? Your choice.’ Must be from Anna, I thought. She forgot to take her mobile out and is using Ian’s to tell me to call Rose. Well, that’s me told and she’s right, I do have to snap out of feeling defeated and fight, so OK, Anna, message received and I choose to be a winner.
I took a deep breath, went into the hall and called Rose’s number. Hugh picked up.
‘Dee. Oh yes, er … Rose can’t come to the phone at the moment.’
My stomach tensed. Just as I thought she would, she was shutting me out. ‘I guess you know all about the condition of the will?’ I asked.
‘I do,’ said Hugh.
‘So why doesn’t she want to go ahead with it?’
I heard Hugh sigh. ‘She’ll have to tell you that herself,’ he said. He was never one to get involved in family squabbles. ‘I’ll see if I can get her to come to the phone.’
The line went quiet and I really wanted to hang up. I was too old for this lark, but Anna’s words kept echoing: you have a choice, don’t just roll over. A few minutes later, Rose came on to the line. ‘Dee. How can I help?’
She sounded so official. ‘This is Dee, Rose, not one of your staff. And I think you know how you can help. You can do what Mum asked us to. Her last wish.’ I might not have been in touch with Rose for years, but I knew what mattered to her. She was always the good daughter, never disobedient, always seeking Mum or Dad’s approval.
‘Plus you need the money,’ said Rose.
‘I do, but regardless of that, it was still Mum’s last wish that we get together and do whatever she’s programmed. She’d thought this out, Rose. I think the least we can do is go along with what she wanted. What if she’s still watching us from somewhere? What if there is an afterlife and she can see that you intend to disregard her wish and not hear how much she regretted us not talking.’
‘Oh for God’s sake, Dee, there is no such thing as a ghost or an afterlife. You live, you die. Mum’s gone.’
OK, I thought, I knew that might not work. Time to try another tactic.
‘You’re probably right,’ I said. ‘But part of her will live on with her kicking the bucket list. We know from the letter that she put time and thought into it. If we don’t do it, we’ll never know what was really on her mind these last months. I knew she’d been thinking a lot about death. You probably knew that, too – all those books in her room. I want to do it, for her but also for me, because in a way it will help me hang on to her a little longer, like she will still be there, telling me what to do every other month.’
Rose was quiet.
Enough said, I told myself, don’t push her.
‘I suppose there’s nothing to lose if we at least see what she wanted,’ said Rose finally.
‘Exactly,’ I agreed. ‘Step at a time.’
‘I might drop out if she’s dreamed up something completely insane. You know what she was like.’
‘Your prerogative, but I think we owe it to her to at least give it a chance.’
‘Let me think about it,’ said Rose. ‘I’ll get back to you.’
I sighed. Blooming Rose. She’d not changed. She never agreed to anything easily, it was always: let me think about it. She’d played the ‘I’ll get back to you’ tactic perfectly, like she always had: taking control and leaving me hanging, at her mercy and wondering what she’d do.
Rose
Saturday 12 September.
‘What did you say to Dee?’ Hugh asked after I’d put down the phone.
‘That I’d think about it.’
‘Fleur?’
‘Fleur’s in.’
‘I think you should do it, Rose. It might be just what you need.’
‘I probably will … just … I still feel so angry with them both.’
‘Over the funeral?’
‘They’re both so selfish, always have been and now they expect me to turn the page on the fact that neither of them offered to help and just carry on like it never happened. Someone had to settle the bill, see the last people off, book taxis for the out-of-towners.’
‘It was their mother’s funeral. They probably didn’t even think.’
‘Exactly. They never think and they’re not the only ones who lost a mother. Fleur didn’t even say goodbye at the wake. I know. I should let go but I can’t. Not at the moment.’
‘To be expected when you’re going through what you are. It’s one of the stages. Denial, anger, depression, acceptance, something like that.’
‘Well I’m stuck in the anger stage.’
‘The funeral was back in July,’ said Hugh. ‘You can’t keep carrying this. You have to let it go.’
‘I know and I know it’s not really about them but anger is an emotion I can deal with at present so I’m sticking with it.’
Hugh smiled. ‘Anyway, it was probably easier that you did it yourself. I’ve often heard you say that neither Fleur or Dee are great organizers.’
‘Stop being reasonable and nice. I want to rage about something and they happen to be in range.’
‘Fine. Rage away,’ said Hugh.
I had wanted to speak to both of my sisters at the funeral before they left but it had been full on from six in the morning, then Dee’d picked the worst possible time to try and talk to me. She probably took it the wrong way, prickly as always. She was always oversensitive. And Fleur just disappeared, probably wrapped up in her grief like she was the only one who existed. I meant to make it right at the will reading then but got a call I couldn’t ignore. I had to go and it’s all been crazy since then. Life takes over, appointments, people to see, plans to make.
‘So much for sisters,’ I said.
Hugh came over and gave me a bear hug. ‘You have me, Rose, you always have me.’
That much was true. I had Hugh. Neither Fleur nor Dee had partners. I was being mean and not thinking straight. I’d call Dee and let her know I’d do the programme. Of course I would, but not today; tomorrow, I’d call her tomorrow.
8
Saturday 3 October
Two envelopes arrived in the morning post.
Train tickets to Somerset from Mr Richardson, with an address and instruction to pack a case for Friday and Saturday, 9 and 10 October, and to meet our list organizer, Daniel Scott, on Saturday morning at nine a.m.
I looked up the address and sighed with relief. Greyshott Manor Hotel and Spa just outside Taunton. Dear Mum. She’d arranged a weekend of pampering, I thought. Why did I ever doubt her? What a sweetheart. And sensible. If Fleur, Rose and I could relax in each other’s company, maybe we could begin to mend some bridges.
The other envelope contained an official looking letter:
Dear Ms McDonald,
Regarding the matter of my late mother’s house, as you know, I have given the estate agent the go-ahead to start marketing. If there is any change in your circumstances and you find yourself in a position to proceed, please let me know as soon as possible. I respect that you were a good tenant for my mother for many years, so you have until the end of the month to give me your decision,
Regards,
Michael Harris
At least he was proposing to give me more time. Maybe a miracle would happen. I texted him back: I will be in touch after this weekend :). If I was right about the kind of man he was, the smiley would annoy him. Good, I thought.
Friday 9 October
I had an easy train journey, read a book and arrived at the hotel early Friday evening. It looked lovely. An old manor house set in acres of parkland.
Inside was a wide reception hall with oak floors, wood-panelled walls, tasteful antiques and the scent of lavender beeswax polish in the air. I was shown to the first floor by a well-spoken young woman with a ponytail called Felicity, who was eager to let me know all about the facilities of the hotel. When I saw the beautiful room with heavy drapes and king-size bed with velvet and brocade cushions, and the enormous bunch of country garden flowers, I felt myself tearing up at the idea of Mum having arranged such a treat for us. I hadn’t had a spa weekend in years, and was really looking forward to whatever treatments Mum had planned.
‘Have my sisters arrived?’ I asked. ‘Rose Edwards and Fleur Parker?’
‘Ms Edwards has arrived. I believe she’s having supper in her room,’ said Felicity. ‘And Ms Parker called this afternoon to say that she would be checking in later and didn’t require dinner.’
Fine, if that’s how you want to play it, I thought after Felicity had left me alone. I was glad to have some time to enjoy where I was. I ran a bath in the marble bathroom, poured in all the Molton Brown white sandalwood products from the shelves, then lay in it for half an hour, inhaling the woody scent and feeling utterly spoilt. After my bath, I put on the enormous fluffy white courtesy robe, ordered a chicken Caesar salad and a half-bottle of Sancerre. Bliss, I thought as I sank back into the plump cushions on the bed. All I need now is a handsome hunk with a thing about older women to share it all with. Maybe not. I’d feel self-conscious after so long. Maybe a long-sighted hunk? And can I really be bothered? It’s been a long time, years, since I’ve had a lover. I’m not sure I remember what goes where any more. I flicked on the telly. A romantic comedy was starting. Before Sunset.
If a man was with me, I thought, the channel would be changed and football put on. The duvet would be nicked in the night; I’d be kept awake by his snoring. No thanks. Sometimes it’s good to be single. I can watch what I want, sleep spread-eagled across the bed with no one to consider and no one to try and please.
Fleur
Friday 9 October, 11 a.m.
I called Rose’s house to suggest we drive down to the hotel together. I thought it would be a good chance to re-establish contact, find out how she’s doing. No one home. Left a message. Am packed and ready and looking forward to the weekend. Perhaps we could all have supper together this evening, break the ice, start things on a positive note.
1 p.m.: Texted Rose’s mobile. No answer.
5 p.m.: Tried Rose’s landline again. Still no one home. Might as well set off.
6 p.m.: Rose replied to my text. She’s already at the hotel. The mean cow. It clearly didn’t even occur to her that we could drive together. That’s how much she wants my company. So much for a cosy pre-programme supper – no way that’s going to happen now. Let it go, Fleur, let it go. Oh well, I don’t have to be there until the morning so I’ll get there in my own time when I’m good and ready and I’ll go straight to my room. Bugger the pair of them.
Dee
Saturday 10 October
Rose and Fleur were already in the lobby, seated at a low table, when I came down in the morning. Rose was dressed in her preppy casual look – jeans, a white shirt and pearls; Fleur, in pale pink cashmere and white jeans, looked as feminine as ever. I was in grey leggings and a loose T-shirt. We were at a spa, after all, and here to relax: who cared what we looked like? Not me. I’d had a good night’s sleep, a delicious room-service breakfast of scrambled eggs, smoked salmon and soda bread, and felt in a positive mood, looking forward to whatever Mum had planned for us. Maybe an aromatherapy massage? A facial? Reflexology?
‘I’ve already googled him,’ said Fleur, looking at her phone.
‘Who?’ I asked.
‘Daniel Scott,’ she replied and held up her phone screen for Rose and me. It showed a man with silver grey hair and smiling eyes, possibly in his fifties.
The photo looked like a professional PR shot but the man in it looked interesting. Damn, I thought. And I look like a bag lady. I was just wondering whether to run upstairs and change when the real-life Daniel appeared. He clocked immediately that Fleur had his face on her phone.
‘Been checking me out?’ His eyes twinkled. So did Fleur’s. Not mine, though, when he glanced at me. I felt myself sag inside. I felt sixteen again. Sixteen and I’d met a boy I liked, then along would come my younger sister and I’d become invisible. Game over. A memory from that time came to mind. I’d had a crush on a boy called Jimmy Nash and had gone to a local sport’s club with Fleur to watch him play football. The pitch was full of boys; as soon as they spotted Fleur, I’d watched with dismay as a ripple of male nostrils, Jim’s included, rose and fell like a Mexican wave in recognition of the scent of fresh and beautiful bait. My sister. She always had that effect on men.
‘Of course,’ said Fleur. ‘We want to know what we’re in for.’ She flicked a lock of hair and gave him a cheeky smile.
‘Good for you,’ said Daniel as he pulled up a chair to sit with us. ‘Always best to do your research.’
‘Exactly,’ said Fleur. When he turned away, she looked over at me and raised an eyebrow. She wanted us to be teens checking out the talent again, but I didn’t feel like playing along. Decades on, it would still be game over.
Rose looked less impressed. ‘I agree too. Who are you and what qualifies you for this job?’
Daniel appeared unfazed by her hostile tone. ‘Why don’t we go into the library area, then I can answer all your questions,’ he replied, then turned to me. ‘And you must be Daisy.’
‘Dee. Only my mother called me Daisy.’ I smiled at him. I wanted him to know that – unlike Rose – I was friendly; a friendly, saggy bag lady.
He led us into a snug room at the back of the hotel. It smelt of a peat fire, had old leather gentlemen’s armchairs and walls lined with books, the kind of place you could curl up and spend hours reading. Rose, Fleur and I sat around a coffee table in front of the fireplace.
Daniel closed the double doors and came to sit with us. ‘We shan’t be disturbed in here. So. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Daniel Scott and—’
‘How do you – or rather did you – know our mother?’ asked Rose.
‘Rose, I take it,’ said Daniel, then looked at Fleur, ‘and you must be Fleur.’
Fleur nodded. ‘Yes. Sorry, how rude of us,’ she gave Rose an accusing look. ‘Rose, Daisy … Dee, and Fleur. Daughters of Iris.’
‘She named us all after flowers,’ I said, then cursed myself for saying something so obvious.
‘Iris did tell me. I think that’s charming. Now, I know you must be wondering what you’re in for. It must be strange to be in your situation and wondering who the hell I am. Your mother got in touch with me last year to ask if I would meet with you all when the time came …’
As he spoke, I had a chance to appraise him properly. He looked fit, not rugby fit, more yoga fit, lean and long limbed, and he had an elegance about him as he sat back in his chair, at ease with us and with the world. A man with nothing to prove. White hair slightly longer than in his PR photo, a pale blue linen shirt, jeans, three rubber bracelets on his right wrist, orange, yellow and green – the kind that say you support a charity, a woven-thread Indian bracelet on the other wrist. His face showed his age and was slightly craggy, lived in, but not in a weary way; he had laughter lines around blue eyes that looked intelligent. He also looked amused by what was happening. But is that by us or by the situation he’s in with us? I wondered. Whichever, I decided, Daniel Scott is a very attractive and charismatic man.
‘So you met our mother?’ asked Rose.
‘I did,’ said Daniel. ‘On several occasions. She came to one of the meditation centres I oversee. She studied with the swami at the centre for many months about eight years ago and then again in her last year.’
‘Swami Muktanand. I remember her telling me about him,’ I said.
Daniel nodded. ‘That’s right. She was a true seeker, your mother, very open minded. We kept in touch.’
‘Did you visit her at the home?’ asked Fleur.