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‘Well, now you do. She said that knowing you’d finally got the family you wanted meant the world to her, the absolute world.’
It doesn’t sound like Joyce, doesn’t sound like words she would use, but Naomi is taking his hand and talking in a long, soothing flow.
‘I know it was terrible,’ she is saying, ‘the way she went, but she was ready. And they say it was so quick she won’t have suffered any pain. And you were with her, weren’t you, at the end? She didn’t die alone, did she? If she’d been in hospital, she would have died alone like my dad, but instead she was with the person she loved most in the world. It’s so great that you could give her that at the end, you know? So anyway, that’s why I’ve done something I think you’ll like.’
‘What?’ Despite the pain in his heart, he cannot help but smile. ‘Nomes?’
‘I’ve only gone and booked the Guildhall!’ She lets go of his hand and gives a little shriek. ‘Monday August the thirtieth! I tried for the Saturday, you know, your actual birthday, but they were fully booked. But it’ll still be summer technically.’
‘What do you mean? What for? For a birthday party?’
She laughs. ‘No, silly! To get married!’
He is reeling, can’t take it in. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
‘I know I said I wasn’t sure,’ she says. ‘But I am sure, I am. All I want now is to make you happy for the rest of your life. We’ll say goodbye to Joyce this coming Monday as planned, and she’ll go up to heaven knowing that we’re getting married, OK? I mean, I know you don’t believe in that stuff, but it’s comforting to think of her still with us in spirit, and this way we won’t be too sad. What do you say, Mr Moore?’ To his astonishment, she lowers herself to one knee. ‘Sam Moore, will you marry me?’
She is looking up at him. She, his guardian angel, has created gold from ashes. She has turned everything on its head. How he loves her. How did he ever let her go?
‘I will,’ he says, laughing through his tears now, pulling her up, kissing her again. ‘Thank you. Thank you for everything. I love you.’
CHAPTER 45
Sam barely remembers anything about the funeral service. He knows he managed to get through the reading without crying, can recall the faces in the small and socially distanced crowd looking up at him: Tommy, in a tiny shirt and trousers, wriggling in Naomi’s arms; Naomi’s sister Jo, whom he barely recognised with her shorn hair and cream linen trouser suit; Joyce’s pals from the Sea Shanty Chanteurs; and Miranda, of course, who stayed at the back, discreet as always. He knows they listened to ‘Wild Horses’by the Rolling Stones while the coffin was sent through the saloon doors of the crematorium, and knows that in different, easier times they could have filled the place twice, three times over with Joyce’s many friends. What he remembers, what he will always remember, is following the hearse through the town, his breath catching at the sight of all the people standing on the pavements waving and clapping.
I never told Sam that it was me who called round a few of Joyce’s friends, told them the approximate time the hearse would be heading up Broad Street, to spread the word. It was quite a sight, I have to say. Even the shopkeepers stood outside their shops, hands raised, some dabbing their eyes with tissues. To know he was comforted in turn comforted me. You feel so powerless in these situations. Especially in the aftermath of such a gruesome thing. I did not, of course, realise the extent of my powerlessness, believing as I did that the tragedy was over. I had no idea at that point that he planned to get married soon after. If I’d known, would I have told him to wait? He was in the eye of the storm of grief – would I have reminded him of that, told him that no one is really in their right mind immediately after losing a loved one, especially in such traumatic circumstances?
I don’t know. At the time, I think I would have said his romantic affairs were none of my business. It’s possible there would have been a little possessiveness in the mix I would have been keen to hide. A little jealousy. Even petulance perhaps. It was too late by then to let him know how I felt. He had made his choice. I loved him but had no claim on him.
‘See?’ Naomi said, apparently, as they peered out from the windows of the funeral car. ‘She was a celebrity, your gran.’
He was unable to speak.
Now the funeral is over, Sam stands in the magnificent garden of his gran’s house, glad of the sunshine, glad they can at least take off their protective masks.
‘I’d like to propose a toast,’ he says; the meagre crowd falls into silence. ‘To my gran, Joyce, who raised me, and to all of you for being her great friends and for coming today to remember her. Thank you. Thank you all so much. Cheers.’
‘To Joyce.’
Joyce’s friends sip their drinks. Into the silence that follows, a lone, clear voice rises in song. It is Mike, from the Chanteurs, who has stepped into the centre of the lawn, glass still raised:
My Bonnie lies over the ocean. My Bonnie lies over the sea.
My Bonnie lies over the ocean, so bring back my Bonnie to me.
On cue, the others step forward, their a cappella floating up, up into the air:
Bring back, bring back, oh bring back my Bonnie to me, to me
Bring back, bring back, oh bring back my Bonnie to me.
Unable to sing or even mouth the familiar words, Sam listens in silence. Even if they cannot embrace one another, let alone continue into the evening, end up round the piano getting slowly drunk and going through all Joyce’s favourite songs as he knows she would want,they can do this: sing one last song for her here in the garden she loved so much.
And for those few minutes he is consoled.
Once the song has finished, Naomi flits about, clearing away glasses and empty plates. She has worked tirelessly this morning, he thinks, arriving with Tommy and helping to make sandwiches, arrange sausage rolls on plates, put beer and wine in the fridge. Jo has taken Tommy home. Sam would have liked him here, but Toms is too little to stay, Naomi said. A wake is a grown-up affair, and his routine would have been ruined. Sam did not argue. When it comes to Toms, Naomi knows best.
The guests don’t stay long – perhaps because Naomi has begun to wash up, the clank of crockery reaching them in the garden.
