A window

I don’t suppose it matters much, really—all told. He’s happy with whatever I put in front of him these days. Except that—none of that anymore. We used to be so…well, you know. Come on, Clara, you can’t think like that. You knew what you were getting into when you said, “I do.” Saw it with your sister. And it was a lovely wedding, after all. Everybody said so—best wedding they’d ever seen. I suppose they’d have to say that; it would be rather uncouth to say anything less. But that cake—Marnie did a good job, bless her soul.

Now, that was a funeral—a lovely send-off. Funny, really, how they just disappear and then…well, you know. Mustn’t think like that, can’t be morbid. Besides, our Jerry’s coming down for tea at six. I told Brian to be back from the pub by five, but I doubt he’ll make it. Never mind. We’ve had a good life, all in all. Five grandchildren to speak of and another one on its way. You didn’t do too bad for yourself, all things considered. Remember that Vera down the road? Tough life she had. Husband left her, and all that commotion. They reckon she met a fella—Michael Jones, they call him. Haven’t seen her. Not since she upped and left that night. But I don’t know nothing about that. Not one for gossip, am I really? Keep your nose out of other people’s business, that’s what I say. But it was the most excitement we’ve had down here since Barbara Windsor left EastEnders. Well, that and the Coronation—but that was a long time ago now. Beautiful, that was. I remember it like it was yesterday. And all those jewels! Being a kid and seeing all that—I’ll never forget it as long as I live. Exquisite, she was—a real princess. I still remember her shaking my hand like I was special. Born for the job, she was.

I didn’t expect her to go before me, to be honest. Bit of a surprise, really, considering…I mean, that husband of hers, a silly fool, but you couldn’t help liking him. The day he told that photographer to “take the fucking picture”—that’s what he said! Didn’t half make me giggle. Now him—you saw coming. It looked like he’d been dead ten years already before he passed. But her—not on your Nellie. I never thought it. But that’s love for you, isn’t it? Broken heart, that’s what she had. I don’t know what I’d do if Bryn popped his clogs tomorrow. No idea at all. But mustn’t think like that. Can’t let that kind of thing get in your head. It’s like a maggot, innit? One of them—hundreds of them all chomping on your brain, making you think things you shouldn’t be thinking.

Besides, it would be better, really, if he went first. He’d be lost without me. He’d pickle his liver in a week. The thing about it is he likes my pies too much, so he always comes home when he’s hungry. But what would he do if I weren’t here to make ’em? Nothing, I imagine. He’d starve himself to death. And Griff would never get his biscuits. It’d be a shambles. No, better that way. Those begonias don’t look too healthy—I’m going to have to start taking more care of the garden. Now, Clara, think about what your mother told you—the house isn’t going to clean itself, and the men need to be fed. They’re the breadwinners, after all. And look at you here, sitting around thinking about nothing. There’s things to do. And you still need to go to Nancy’s to pick up the bake stones. You should have made them yourself. You know how Jerry likes them freshly baked. But there’s just so much happening, it’s hard to keep up with it all. And now our Sheila’s in the hospital. How she managed to fall on the ice, I’ll never know. I need to take her some flowers later. Visiting hours—what time are they again? I think it’s between twelve and two. I’ll need to check. She had a lovely bunch at her table yesterday. The scouts got them for her—gorgeous they were, pink and red carnations. Maybe I should just take her a magazine.

Right, come on, old girl—the pastry isn’t going to roll itself.