The Kicking the Bucket List. Cathy Hopkins

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       3

      Wednesday 2 September, morning

      I picked up my bag from where I’d left it when I got home last night and pulled out the envelope that Mr Richardson had given me. As I put it on the bedside cabinet to read again later, I remembered Mum’s request that I talk to God.

      I sat on the bed and looked up at the ceiling. ‘OK Mum, no time like the present so here goes. Dear God, my mother’s suggested that I talk to you. I know, it’s been a while – that’s because I’m not convinced that there’s anyone listening and, if there is, speaks English. How does it work? Do you have a Google Translate system on your cosmic exchange for incoming prayers? Er …’ Why am I talking to the ceiling? I wondered as I noticed a damp patch in the left corner above the door. If God is omnipresent then I could just as well talk to the floor. I looked down and there, as clear as daylight, was a message from God, spelt out in cat hairs and toast crumbs. It said, Dee McDonald, your carpet needs hoovering. ‘So … God … I’d be interested to hear what you have to say about wasps and why they exist. And why is there so much trouble and hatred in the world? What do you have to say about that?’

      No reply. Just the ticking of the clock by the bed and, in the distance, the sound of an occasional passerby going about their business outside. In the dressing-table mirror I could see a slim woman propped up against a pile of teal blue velvet cushions on a cast-iron bed, a silver grey cat sleeping by her side. Me, dressed in jeans and a pale blue top, chestnut-coloured shoulder-length hair loosely tied back. My roots needed doing. I made a mental note to get some wash-in-colour on my next visit to Boots.

      I jumped at the sound of the phone ringing, got up and went to answer.

      ‘Is that Daisy McDonald?’ A man’s voice. Not one I knew.

      ‘It is,’ I replied, adopting the same solemn tone.

      ‘William Harris here. My mother, Eleanor Harris, was your landlady.’

      ‘Was?’

      ‘Yes. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news but am calling to inform you that she passed away last week.’

      I sank back on to the bed and listened to the rest of what he had to say, whilst at the same time trying to quell my rising panic. Letter in the post to me, confirming it all. Oh god, I know what that means. He’ll want me out, I thought as I made myself focus.

      When he’d finished, I put the phone down. Mrs Harris had been elderly so it was a call I’d been expecting and dreading for a few years. Hard to take in now that it had actually happened. I didn’t know her well, but it was a blow all the same. We’d met when I first came to the southwest just over twenty-eight years ago, fresh out of art college, my head full of dreams of a studio by the sea. She came to my first exhibition in the Clock Tower down by the bay and liked my paintings. When she heard I was looking for somewhere permanent to live, she’d offered me a house at the back of the village. I could hardly believe my luck when I saw it, especially as the rent she asked for was ridiculously low considering the size of the place and the location. It was a mid-terrace with three floors, a loft up top with great light where I used to do my paintings, two bedrooms on the first floor with an ancient but adequate bathroom, a kitchen, living room, loo on the ground floor, and at the back was a wrought-iron veranda that led to a small neglected garden that I’d brought back to life over the years, planting roses, lavender and wild geraniums.

      Mrs Harris said that all she wanted was a good tenant, a caretaker. She wasn’t bothered about getting the best price, as long as the house was looked after. It had belonged to her parents and was still full of their dark mahogany furniture, faded velvet curtains and threadbare rugs. She’d grown up there, so wanted it to go to the right person, someone who was going to stay in the area; not a holiday let, which would mean never knowing how long anyone was going to stay or who they were. The house, though smaller, reminded me of my old family home so I felt like I belonged there from the start. It worked well. I rarely saw her because she lived in Truro and visited once a year, when she’d come in June and nod appreciatively at my roses and the fact I hadn’t tried to change the décor. I paid my rent into her account on time, kept up with repairs, and filled the house with books, artefacts from my travels and friends’ paintings, giving it a cosy, bohemian and lived-in feel. It was my home. Mrs Harris’s death would mean the end of our arrangement.

      Wednesday 2 September, afternoon

      ‘Dear God, me again,’ I said, as I hacked down shrubs in the back garden as if it might solve my problems. ‘Sorry we got cut off this morning. Life took over, I’m sure you understand, being omniscient and all. Anyway. Home. I might not have one for much longer. Can you help? Or should one not put in personal requests?’

      As if in response, the phone rang. I ran in to the kitchen to answer. ‘Hello.’

      ‘Is that Dee McDonald?’ A man’s voice again. Well spoken. Not William Harris.

      ‘It is.’

      ‘Michael Harris here.’

      Ah, the elder brother, I thought. I’d met him once briefly, years ago, when he was passing through on his way to visit his mother. He was about my age, a handsome, solid-looking man, and very sure of himself in that way the privileged and privately educated often are.

      ‘Sorry to spring this on you, but I’m just round the corner and I … I believe my brother called.’

      ‘He did. I’m sorry for your loss.’

      ‘Thank СКАЧАТЬ