Rita thought she’d misheard him but when she looked at his face and saw the distress in his eyes, she knew she hadn’t. Her hand reached out to his just as the roofer’s had to Imogen’s. He took hers eagerly in his and she said, ‘I know.’
‘You know?’ questioned Henry. ‘How do you know?’
‘They were in Pansies earlier. I walked past to see how busy it was, and I saw them.’
Henry’s hand was hot in hers. She wanted her hand to stay there forever. If only the other people walking in the park could see them. ‘Look at those lovers,’ they’d say. ‘They can’t take their eyes off each other.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.
He withdrew his hand from Rita’s reluctantly. It felt comforting to touch her. Or, maybe it was just comforting to touch somebody. Rita was lovely, not like Ray, the stupid milkman or Jim that scruffy, good for nothing. Or that awful chap, Billy, that Rita talked about. Always people, Henry thought, his jaw tightening; it was always people that ruined your life. It could be wonderful, joyful, full of pleasure, if it wasn’t for other people. Now he came to think of it, people were the bane of his life. Take Imogen’s parents for example. He had to fight back a scoff as he thought about them. Not once had they visited Henry and Imogen for Sunday lunch without leaving Henry with a heavy stomach and terrible indigestion. John would always make a negative comment about the garden.
‘I wouldn’t grow those runner beans there,’ he’d criticise. ‘A haven for snails, that is.’
Then, there was his mother-in-law, who consistently tidiedtheirkitchen and emptiedtheirdishwasher. Henry would cringe as her hands wandered amongst their things.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Imogen would say but it mattered to Henry. It meant his nice peaceful Sunday was unsettled by their annoying visits.
Even his leisure time was tarnished by Jack, who regularly ruined their game of tennis by smoking at least two cigarettes after their game. Irritatingly, and selfishly blowing smoke towards Henry, whose nostrils rejected it with great vigour, causing him to sneeze dramatically. Work could have been more bearable too, if only Helen had made an effort to say good morning and Sam and the other chaps hadn’t talked ad nauseam about wrestling, a sport that made Henry’s stomach churn. He couldn’t look at those fat, sweaty men rolling around and grunting like pigs. Now, to top it all, Imogen had well and truly fractured their marriage with this absurd affair and with a roofer of all things. Good heavens, thought Henry. How embarrassing for him if anyone ever found out. It was difficult, Henry thought, in fact practically impossible to find people with the same intelligence and ideals that he had. There was absolutely no one at work. He idly wondered if the new chap, Matt, also liked wrestling.
‘I should walk you back,’ said Henry.
‘It must have been a shock,’ said Rita, ‘when you found out about Imogen.’
‘Yes it was. I really don’t understand it,’ said Henry.
It had been a shock. In fact, it had made Henry feel very inadequate indeed.
‘She was very lucky to have had you,’ said Rita, looking at him admiringly and realised with a jolt that she had used the past tense.
They walked slowly to the supermarket, stopping for a few minutes to listen to a busker singing a song about broken hearts and illicit love.
‘I have to get this sorted,’ said Henry, frowning. ‘I can’t go on like this every day. Do you see other dead people?’
‘I don’t know. If I do, they haven’t told me they’re dead, like you did.’
‘I’m hoping if I keep going into the wardrobe, that maybe I’ll see what happened to me. Then, perhaps I can put things right.’
‘Yes,’ said Rita, who thought it quite odd that Henry went into the wardrobe and claimed he went back in time.
‘I hope you discover how you died,’ said Rita looking up at the sky. ‘I think it’s going to rain again.’
‘Probably,’ said Henry who felt it did nothing but rain. They’d reached the supermarket and Henry knew that in a few moments he would be alone again.
‘I’ll come and see you tonight, shall I?’ he asked boldly.
Rita looked suddenly uncomfortable. She hadn’t anticipated Henry coming to the bedsit again. What if Billy heard her talking to him?
‘What time do you think?’
Henry had no idea what time. It really depended on how long he was in the wardrobe.
‘How about nine?’ asked Henry, thinking he would be desperate for company by then.
‘Okay,’ said Rita.
‘See you later,’ said Henry, who considered kissing her cheek but then changed his mind. Henry didn’t approve of public displays of affection. Not that anyone would see him, of course, but all the same.
‘I hope you learn how you died when you visit the wardrobe,’ said Rita. ‘And that you’re able to put everything right.’ Although Rita felt quite certain that if Henry did get to put things right, everything would then change between them.
