‘Please sit down, sir,’ the driver said firmly.
The man with the Bible shrugged and took a seat at the front of the bus. Rita dashed to the doors and waited for them to open.
‘Let me off,’ she whimpered.
The bus reached the next stop and she hurried off, her shaking legs almost collapsing beneath her. The bus driver shrugged and pulled away without a second glance. Rita breathed hard for several seconds and then wiped the sweat from her face. Tears sprang to her eyes when she realised she would now be late. She’d jumped off three stops too early. She’d have to walk the rest of the way to the supermarket. Rain dribbled down the back of her neck and miserably she pushed back wet strands of hair from her face.
‘It’s alright,’ she whispered, as though she were talking to a frightened child.
A car screeched to a halt at the traffic lights and Rita saw it was Billy. A guardian angel dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, a chariot in the guise of a white Jaguar. If she hurried over, perhaps he would give her a lift. She looked down at her matronly grey skirt and rain splattered boots. She looked so plain. He wouldn’t want her dripping all over his clean upholstery. The red light turned green and then Billy was gone. All that was left was the distant roar of his engine. Just as well, thought Rita. He may have asked who she’d had in her room and that would have been uncomfortable. It would have been nice to tell someone about Henry. But then again, Billy might think she was as nutty as a fruitcake. If he did ask, she would say it was the radio.
Another lie thought Rita and bit her lip. They were only little white lies though. Mostly she told them to help Henry, so it wasn’t like they were bad lies. If she told the truth who knew what would happen. Most likely Billy would ask her to leave. After all, who wanted a tenant who could see dead people?
She really couldn’t afford for Billy to put up her rent and it was unlikely that Henry would stay another night. Most likely he would sort the whole dying business and life would go back to normal.
*
Henry was disappointed. He’d felt certain Rita would take the day off to help him. He strolled miserably through the wet streets, kicking at puddles like a child.
It seemed odd not to be going into work. The Lester case was playing on his mind. It had been an important claim. He hoped it hadn’t been overlooked. He’d worked hard to get that contract. He didn’t want anything going wrong at this late stage. He approached Mayberry Terrace. The quiet street glistened under the recent rain. It seemed deserted as though there had been a mass exodus. Everyone is where Henry ought to be, at work. Their days passing in hot stuffy offices or air-conditioned brightly lit stores while their homes sat empty and airless, waiting for life to pump once again through its empty walls. Ray pulled up in his milk float. Henry could hear him whistling and felt envious. Henry didn’t feel in the least like whistling.
‘Morning,’ Ray called, and Henry was about to respond when he realised that Ray was speaking to Imogen, who stood at the front door. He hadn’t expected her to be home. She wrapped a creased cardigan around her. Imogen never wore creased clothes, neither of them did. It spoke volumes did that creased cardigan.
Henry took advantage of the open door and hurried into the house. Ray was giving Imogen his condolences yet again and Henry yawned in boredom. He wished Imogen would take down the sympathy cards. They gave the house a grim atmosphere. They made the room look untidy too. Sympathy cards were out of place in their living room. Imogen closed the door and took the milk into the kitchen. Henry rather fancied a breakfast tea but knew there was no way of getting one. Instead, he made his way to the bedroom where he sat on the bed and stared curiously at their wardrobe. It looked normal enough, just a simple pine wardrobe that Henry had put together. It had taken him all day. Imogen had brought him endless cups of tea and that evening they had eaten fish and chips as a treat.
The baby clothes were nowhere to be seen. Henry cocked his head and then stood to examine the wardrobe closer as if he were an audience participant at an illusionist show. Much to his amazement he was easily able to turn the handle.
‘Well, that’s it then,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’m not at all dead.’
The shirts and ties he expected to see were nowhere in sight. Instead, like before, he found himself walking into a room. He recognised it immediately as their kitchen. It looked the same as it did today, except there were birthday cards fanned out on the kitchen counter. Sitting on the hob, as appetising as he remembered it, was Imogen’s birthday cake. I wouldn’t mind a slice of that with a breakfast tea, thought Henry hungrily. If there was one thing Henry couldn’t resist it was Imogen’s sponge cake. He looked at the card with white roses on the front and remembered when he’d bought it, just three months ago. It had been at the very front of the stand in Waitrose and he’d thought how much Imogen would like it. He’d bought a bunch of red roses too. No one could ever say Henry didn’t aspire to romanticism. It didn’t come easy to him, but Henry imagined it didn’t come easy to most men. Romance was for women. He looked at Imogen standing at the kitchen counter. She was dipping chicken thighs into a bowl of seasoned flour. That had been a good dinner, remembered Henry, licking his lips. Imogen had served it with green beans and purple sprouting broccoli along with lovely crispy roast potatoes. He’d bought a nice Chardonnay for them to have with it. He hoped he was still here when dinner was served.
‘They’re beautiful,’ she had said, arranging the roses carefully in the crystal vase that his parents had given them as a wedding present. ‘Fancy you thinking of buying roses,’ she’d added.
‘From Waitrose,’ Henry had informed her. He knew that some of the men at work bought their wives flowers from the garage near the office. Henry had never even considered that.
‘Thank you,’ she’d said, kissing him on the cheek.
He’d gone off to work feeling smug.
‘I’ll get a nice bottle of wine to go with dinner,’ he’d called out before slamming the front door.
He looked at Imogen now. There was a tiny white dusting of flour on her nose. At that moment, the doorbell rang and without thinking Henry went to answer it, but Imogen was already at the door and letting in a smiling, smarmy Jim.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Henry, surprised.
‘Hello dolls,’ Jim said, thrusting a huge bouquet of flowers into her hands. ‘Happy birthday.’
Henry stared aghast at the bouquet. He remembered those flowers. Imogen had said Alice had sent them.
‘That was kind of her, wasn’t it?’ Imogen had said.
Henry remembered being put out that Alice had upstaged him with a bigger bouquet, but all the time it hadn’t been Alice at all.
‘Huh,’ thought Henry, beginning to wonder how many other times his devoted wife had lied to him.
‘They’re beautiful,’ she gushed, her rosy red face looking up at Jim.
Jim grinned and wiped the flour from her nose.
