9781787633902

By

Your Side

By Your Side

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First published in Great Britain in 2025 by Bantam an imprint of Transworld Publishers

Copyright © Ruth Jones 2025

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This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The Lyrics on p. 226 are from ‘Caledonia’ written by Dougie MacLean. The words on pp. 361–2 are inspired by the song ‘Big Spender’ written by Cy Coleman and Dorothy Fields.

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In memory of my beloved father, Richard Norman Jones. The best dad ever.

To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.

– Thomas Campbell

Prologue

The landlord could set his watch by it. Just coming up to 2 p.m. and the pub door opened as it had done on this date every year for the past six, letting in the old fella, coat buttoned up against the gusty gale outside and the dwindling Scottish light of a bleak winter’s day. With a welcoming smile, the landlord nodded and took down a seldom-used tumbler from the shelf. He pushed its rim against the optic, once, twice, releasing the dark amber liquid of a single malt. ‘There you go,’ he said, placing it on the bar and waiting as the man took out some coins from his pocket and handed them over.

‘How you been keepin’?’

‘Aye, not bad.’

‘You managin’ okay up there on yer own? You need help with anything?’

‘I’m tip-top,’ he said and raised his glass with a smile before taking it off to the chair by the fire. The bar was empty apart from a local electrician fixing some light fittings and two Danish hikers sat at a table poring over a map.

The landlord tried not to stare. But this enigmatic once-a-year customer never failed to pique his interest. In all the time the man had lived here, he’d barely spoken a handful of words to anyone. He wasn’t rude, just quiet and mild-mannered and had a way of politely batting away chat. The landlord watched now as the man stared at the whisky, swirling it round, deep in thought. Then,

muttering something under his breath, he surreptitiously raised his glass and drank. When he wiped away a stray tear, the landlord stopped looking. It felt like an intrusion, an invasion of the man’s privacy.

Fifteen minutes later the customer drained his glass, got up and took it back to the bar. Buttoning his coat, he headed to the door and the squally weather outside. ‘Take care now!’ shouted the landlord. The man raised his hand in response, heaved open the door and left the pub, never to return.

1 Linda

I’m late. Which is so unlike me because I’m usually such a good time-keeper. I thrive on routine and schedule, so being late discombobulates me for the rest of the day. Stopping at the lights on Massey Street, I examine my reflection in the rear-view. It’s not that I’m vain. I’m just checking there’s no jam on my cheek or toast in my teeth – remnants from this morning’s breakfast, and not a good look for what lies ahead. My eyebrows could do with a trim. Going slightly feral. Oh and Lordy, that solitary chin bristle has returned. The bane of my face. I’ve tried zapping it, plucking it, even snipping it with nail clippers, but it always, always returns. I’ve contemplated weedkiller. That’s how desperate I am. Attempting now to yank it out between finger and thumb, my facial inspection is disturbed by an unnecessarily long beep from the car behind. ‘All right, all right!’ I shout. One of my pet hates –drivers who think that a micro-second shaved off at traffic lights will make the slightest difference to their journey. In less than three months I’ll be fifty-five, so my list of pet hates is getting longer. I’m told they increase incrementally with age until full metamorphosis into grumpy old womanhood is complete. Well, that may be so for some, but not for me. Because I, Linda Mary Standish, will not be defeated by age. I’m divorced and single with a job

that I love, and a grumpy old woman I am not. Nor will I ever be. I intend to live out the rest of my life at full throttle and woe betide anyone who gets in my way. Like the driver behind who’s now overtaking. His window is open and he glares as he goes. So I blow him a kiss and shout, ‘Show us your knickers, you sexy beast!’ His face is a picture.

Fifteen minutes later, I pull – actually, screech – into the car park of Boransay Crematorium with inappropriate haste, but the service begins in two minutes and needs must. Hatch open, a plain, unadorned coffin inside, the hearse is parked at the main door. And standing straight as the crease in his black flannel trousers, silently awaiting my arrival, the undertaker nods at me as I approach.

‘Linda Standish,’ he says sombrely.

‘Fergus Murray,’ I respond.

We were in school together, me and Fergus. I wouldn’t say we were friends as such – we just inhabited the same educational landscape from reception class through to Higher Maths. And we still refer to each other by our full names. It’s an unwritten rule. Even at the age of fifty-five. I’m not technically late, so I won’t apologize. Especially to Fergus flippin’ Murray. To me he’ll always be a hormone-fuelled teenager drenched in Lynx, with a light scattering of acne and a habit of self-consciously flicking his fringe. For that reason I can’t quite take him seriously.

‘Shall we?’ I say with a sweep of my hand, and head inside.

As crematoria go, Boransay is rather pleasant. It lacks the harsh, utilitarian feel you get in some of them, and it’s tastefully done out. Soft light streams through a modern stained-glass window, accompanied by the gentle organ music now emanating from the speakers. Two pedestals either side of the catafalque boast huge cascading lily arrangements. They’re fake, of course, the lilies. But they’re good-quality fake. So you’d be hard-pressed to know the difference, especially from a few yards away. I join the only other mourner in there: a small, neat woman at least twenty years

my junior standing in the front row. ‘Hello,’ I whisper. ‘I’m from Boransay Council. Unclaimed Heirs Unit.’

We shake hands and she looks confused. ‘Unclaimed hairs?’

‘No, heirs.’

Hairs do seem to be a recurring theme this morning. ‘So, are you a relative of the deceased? Because we’ve been trying to track down the family.’

‘Gosh, no,’ she says. ‘I’m from the hospital. They always send someone if they can. Just out of—’

‘Ahem.’ It’s the unmistakeable throat-clearing of Fergus Murray. Along with his colleague, Old Sam – don’t know his surname, I’ve just always called him Old Sam – they wheel the coffin towards its final resting place, respectfully transferring it from the gurney on to the catafalque. Old Sam removes the gurney and Fergus stands stiffly, hands behind his back, silently signalling to me to begin. I smile brazenly at him, which he’ll no doubt find annoying.

Smiling at a funeral director does feel a bit wrong, I admit.

Disrespectful, somehow.

I don’t mean when they’re out and about on their day off, wearing civvies and posting a letter or buying some lamb chops. I mean when they’re on duty: facilitating easy passage for the dearly departed as they journey from this world to the next.

Fergus is a fifth-generation undertaker who tried to swerve the inevitable family vocation and took up cycling instead. And I’m not talking bike rides in the park, I’m talking proper full-on professional cycling. He was rather good at it too. Commonwealth Games, Tour de France – he was even heading for the Olympics in 2004 till fate jumped in and knocked him off his bike. This resulted in a sharp exit from the international cycling arena and a slight limp. Which, fair play, he carries well. Gives him the air of a wounded soldier. I respect him for that. Yes, I respect him a lot. It’s just, ever since school he’s been one of those people who’s always got to be right. And consequently, someone you just want to prove wrong.

I tap the microphone to check it’s on. A pointless action really: I could whisper my words and still be heard. But it’s a habit of mine.

‘Friends,’ I begin, even though there aren’t any there. ‘We are gathered to bid farewell to Wendy Maria Taylor, who died peacefully on November the twenty-first.’ I say peacefully for decorum really. Truth is, she dropped dead drinking Diet Fanta in a transport caff just outside Crianlarich.

The service, if you can call it that, is predictably short. Less than six minutes in total. Still, it’s quality, not quantity at the end of the day, and nobody can say I’ve not given her a decent send-off. I focus mainly on the early days – her job at the supermarket, her collection of matchboxes and her passion for baking. I’ve surmised all this from the cake tins, pay slips and matchboxes found in her home. I mean, I presume she was collecting the matchboxes, but maybe she was just a heavy smoker or a pyromaniac? I avoid the phrases one normally hears at the funeral of a woman her age – ‘sorely missed’ or ‘beloved wife and mother’. I’ve developed a knack for that now. How to say something without saying very much. How to give the impression of a eulogy without really eulogizing at all.

Because it’s difficult to bid farewell to someone you’ve never met; hard to praise the virtues of a person whose name you first heard only last month; challenging to list the lifetime achievements of a total stranger and make it sound like they were your dearest friend.

Yes, it’s a difficult task.

But someone’s got to do it. And today, that someone is me.

2 Linda

Wendy Taylor, today’s deceased, had lived in a static caravan on the west coast. Me and my colleague Jean went there a week after Wendy’s death and scoured the place, looking for scraps of information. Building a picture, or a ‘character profile’ as we like to call it. We’d started with the cupboards, replacing items with care, removing others we thought might yield vital information. The local charity shop had already been contacted and were due to do a full clearance once our work was done. On Wendy’s little cork noticeboard was an overdue bill and a postcard from Scarborough: Feeling okay now. Would love to say wish you were here, but we both know it’s better like this. Ray x

‘Secret lover?’ Jean had asked.

‘Or estranged relative?’

Sometimes my conversations with Jean sound like they’ve been lifted from an episode of Midsomer Murders. In fact, I think the two of us are prone to embellish our dialogue, just to up the drama. There are elements of my job that I absolutely love. And behaving like a CSI officer is one of them.

Further searching of the caravan had been proving fruitless until Jean found a box file at the back of a storage cupboard. A few

minutes later, we’d located Wendy’s last will and testament. It was all fairly regular stuff except for one line – that her ex-husband was not to be informed of her death and that all my worldly goods were to be bestowed upon a certain Ray Dalgleish from Humberside, ‘along with my blessing and forgiveness’, added Jean. Half an hour later, having satisfied ourselves we had everything we needed, a man appeared in the doorway. A big fella, shaved head, in a vest and dirty jeans. ‘Come for my telly,’ he growled, barely looking in our direction and heading for Wendy’s flat screen.

‘I’m afraid all the items in here are under council jurisdiction,’ I said, trying to exude confidence and authority. I don’t think jurisdiction was the right word, but it sounded impressive.

‘Bollocks,’ said the man, proceeding to unplug the back of the telly. I opened my mouth to protest but Jean shook her head at me. As if to say, some battles aren’t worth fighting. So we just stood by and let him take it. Literally daylight robbery taking place before our very eyes. Once he had the TV firmly in his arms, he turned to us and burst into spontaneous tears. ‘She was all right, was Wendo. Lent her this last Chrimbo.’ We all stood there for a few moments as the man pulled himself together. Eventually I found the courage to speak.

‘Umm . . . don’t suppose your name is Ray, is it?’

He stopped crying as quickly as he’d started. ‘No!’ he retorted, as if I’d insulted him in the worst possible way. ‘Ray’s not havin’ this, no way.’ With that he was gone, him and all his fifty-five flat-screen inches.

We’ve yet to hear back from Ray, and if we don’t, then Wendy’s estate goes to the Crown. Which would be a real shame. Because surely the Crown’s got enough? I’ve also still got a box full of Wendy’s memorabilia in the office, which I’ll have to destroy. Harsh, I know, but if nobody wants it there’s nothing I can do. From time to time, despite the frustration, I have to accept that some people’s lives remain a mystery never to be solved. I suppose that’s where real life differs from Midsomer Murders.

I do wonder what Wendy’s beef was with the ex-husband and why she didn’t want him knowing she’d died. Must have been a very acrimonious split. Me and Douglas are still on pretty good terms, not that I see him that often.

Dear old Douglas.

Aka Dougie MacRae.

Always thought he should have been a country and western singer with a name like that, but fate thought differently and had him selling kitchen equipment to the catering industry instead. I wouldn’t say it was ever a head-over-heels kind of relationship between me and Dougie – more a sort of comfortable friendship with added sex. Yes, certainly there was always a lot of wham bam, because the two of us both had very healthy appetites in that department. But in terms of intellectual connection? Spiritual compatibility? Hmm, not really. The upside of all that being that we never had any big rows. So, swings and roundabouts. And like I said, he was good to me during the dark time. As well as being a lovely dad to our boy, Struan. Still is, to be fair.

It wasn’t a shock when Dougie told me about Denise. I’d sort of suspected it. She was ten years his junior and a new rep at the company. When he started banging on about her I didn’t pay much notice. But then it turned into banging of a different type –late-night ‘meetings’ to discuss ‘sales strategies’, even midweek conferences. I mean, seriously, a conference about industrial freezers or turbo ovens? Turns out the ‘conferences’ had been attended by just two of them and took place in a Premier Inn three miles down the road.

When Dougie finally confessed, I think he was more upset than me. In fact, if I’m honest, I was actually relieved. I made all the right noises, of course – How could you, Doug? Oh, the deceit! –but my heart wasn’t really in it. I helped him pack up his stuff and reassured him that yes, he was making the right decision, when he had moments of doubt. ‘I can’t bear the thought of hurting you,’ he said on the morning he arrived with a hire van to move his stuff. Not wanting to frighten the horses, I just said, ‘Look, we’ll

always be friends. It’s all for the best. And Struan’s twenty-two now, for God’s sake. He’s got his own life.’

‘I know, but when we made those vows I thought it’d be for ever.’

‘Doug, when they invented till death do us part, people only lived to thirty-five! And we’ve had a good run, to be fair.’ He looked at me then, all doleful and puppy-dog eyes, and for one awful moment I thought he was going to do a U-turn.

‘I’m sorry, Lind,’ he said. And pulled me to him, holding me there for a good minute and a half. I’m not sure why I went along with it, but when I felt the familiar stirring inside and a slight thrusting from Douglas, my mind went into pragmatic mode. And I thought – who knows how long it’ll be till I get to have sex again? I also thought – may as well, for old times’ sake. And so we did it – a fully fledged farewell fornication. It was rather good, actually. Only problem was that when we were done, I just wanted him to leave the house. For one thing, I’d ordered new curtains for the bedroom – a sort of ‘fresh start’ purchase – and the woman was due to arrive any minute to measure up. Doug got a bit emotional about leaving. He even started crying. Thank God the doorbell rang. Fully expecting the curtains woman, when I answered the door I said brightly and breezily, ‘Hello, are you from Drapes and Capes?’, only to be met with confusion.

‘No. I’m Denise,’ she said sheepishly. ‘I promised Doug I’d wait in the van but I thought you and I should meet. I don’t want there to be a thing between us.’ I could see what Douglas saw in her – albeit on a very superficial level. Slim – a size twelve maybe? Around early forties, with excessively highlighted hair, fake tan and a lot of gold. Heavily made-up, with extra-large lips. Y’know, the way these days they get them inflated or something. Looks ludicrous if you ask me, but still. Not for me to judge. I stood there, lost for words, until a panicky Douglas appeared behind me, still a little sweaty after what we’d just done, and presumably his guilt making him nervous that a fight might ensue.

‘Come on, girls, I don’t want any trouble,’ he said unnecessarily. In your dreams, I thought.

‘Oh, Denise!’ I said with a smile, admittedly a wicked smile, given the fact I’d just shagged her boyfriend on the stairs. ‘So good to meet you.’ And I shook her hand. I think she was a bit thrown by this. Understandably. ‘Look, I won’t keep you. I think it’s fantastic that you’re making this move to Spain.’

‘Really?’ asked Denise.

‘Absolutely. Fresh start for us all. Now, do stay in touch, won’t you!’ By this point I was ushering them back to the hire van, keen to get on with my life. As Dougie climbed into the driver’s seat he gave me this meaningful look before starting the engine. And I noticed his flies were undone. But that wasn’t my problem.

I think Denise had wanted to suss me out – just to reassure herself that, being the younger and conventionally more attractive option, she could guarantee fidelity from her new man. She probably took pity on me – the older woman who’d gone to seed. If only you knew, I thought. Just before she got into the van, I touched her arm and whispered, ‘By the way, you might want to invest in a few tubes of antifungal cream for his toenails. Just to be on the safe side.’ And with that, they were gone. I waved them off down the road feeling an overwhelming sense of generosity at having gifted Douglas to Denise.

That was six years ago. Struan’s been out to visit them a couple of times and I think they’re doing okay. They run a café on the Costa Dorada called Doolally’s. Struan said Denise has gained quite a few pounds. I guess that’s what happens when you fall in love.

With Wendy Taylor finally dispatched and sent off to the big caravan in the sky, I head back to my car. Fergus Murray does a slow drive-by in the hearse. He nods at me unsmilingly, so I give him a thumbs-up and a big silly grin. I look at my phone – just enough time to swing by Greggs for a macaroni pie and a fern cake before heading back to the office. I’ve got a meeting at two with Heather, the new head of HR. This will be our third meeting in two weeks. She’s very nice, I must say. Really friendly.

3 Linda

The Unclaimed Heirs Unit is just one of several departments I’ve worked in at Boransay Council. I started off in transport, then waste disposal, followed by traffic fines, public parks and school catering. The latter coincided with my getting pregnant so they replaced me when I went on maternity leave and promised to find me a new role on my return. That’s the great thing about working for the council – you can pretty much slot into a whole array of public-serving roles. Almost a year later, I came back part-time so I could look after the baby. I’d work Monday to Friday, ten till two, which allowed me to do nursery drop-offs and pick-ups, get home and have Mummy time till my husband Douglas got in from work. It was a rock-solid routine and I loved it. They were probably – no definitely – the happiest years of my working life. Happiest years of my ENTIRE life, in fact, let’s not beat around the bush.

Then June the second happened. 1994. And my soul collapsed in pain.

Afterwards, I didn’t think I’d be able to breathe again, let alone get dressed and go back to work. Because it’s not something you

ever recover from , just learn to live with . Douglas, God bless him, kept on at me. Wouldn’t let me drown, even though he too must have been suffocating in sorrow. Well, I know he was. But he finally got through and persuaded me to return. ‘It’ll give you a bit of focus, Lindy,’ he’d say.

We’ve been divorced nearly six years, me and Doug. But his patience back then was extraordinary – taking all sorts of backlashes from me, as if it was his fault, poor man.

It was no one’s fault.

That’s what they kept telling me.

And eventually I just surrendered and gave up trying to blame.

Of course, when I did return to work, I was handled with kid gloves. Nobody knew what to say around me. Or if they did, it didn’t matter because I couldn’t really hear much anyone said back then. I went in to see the nice lady in HR – which wasn’t called HR in those days, just personnel. She tried to ascertain where I’d like to work, what interested me.

Nothing, I told her.

Nothing interested me.

But undeterred, like an optimistic careers officer sat across a school desk from a reluctant teenager, the HR lady handed me a list of available roles on offer in Boransay Council, suggesting I went for something benign and uplifting, like Libraries or Adult Learning.

And that’s when I first discovered it. The Unclaimed Heirs Unit is looking for a new team member. The ideal candidate will assist in tracking down a deceased person’s next of kin, putting their affairs in order, tidying up and closing down their homes.

The Unclaimed Heirs Unit. Hadn’t even heard of it before! The HR lady looked horrified when I asked for more information, saying that given my recent experience, working in any area death-related might be a bad idea. (These days they’d call it triggering. Another one for the pet-hate list.) But I was intrigued, and insisted on talking to someone who worked there.

Josie Byars was the outgoing employee whose job was up for grabs. And as soon as she began describing her work, I knew it was meant for me. ‘Giving eulogies for the unmourned and unremembered is not actually part of the job description,’ she said. ‘But I feel honour-bound to do it. The final piece in the jigsaw, if you like. Doesn’t everyone deserve a farewell? Even if there’s only one person there to say goodbye?’

Doesn’t everyone deserve a farewell?

It helped me crawl back to life. Gave me some sort of purpose. And time passed and I got stronger until everyone expected me to change jobs – like it was something I needed to get out of my system.

Thirty years later, and I’m still here. I’ve lost count of the number of cases we’ve handled. Some are straightforward, some quite a challenge. Because you never know what you’re going to find when you open up that front door and step inside. Jean and I always gear ourselves up for the worst – y’know, rancid meat in the fridge, overflowing ashtrays and cans of lager strewn across the floor. But more often than not, the homes of the deceased are in order and well cared for. Which makes you wonder why they’ve ended up alone. Of course, it’s very presumptuous of me to judge ‘being alone’ as a negative. Some people actually choose a solitary life. And who am I to say that’s wrong?

4 Linda

‘No way, Missy!’ I declare in a rather melodramatic explosion, instantly feeling a fool for saying ‘Missy’, as if I’m Erin Brockovich or some other feisty female in a film. Still, I’m in shock. Heather – the ‘nice’ HR lady – just mooted the idea of my taking voluntary redundancy. ‘It’s not you, Linda, it’s the system. With digital footprints being what they are, everything’s going more and more online and the role will be better suited to someone with advanced IT skills.’

Well that’s not me, to be fair. But redundant??

‘It’s a kick in the teeth, you know. Being told you’re no use any more.’

‘Oh come on now, Linda, you know that’s not what we’re saying,’ she replies. And I do, but I’m secretly enjoying making her squirm with my passive aggression.

‘A computer can’t deliver someone’s eulogy, Heather. A computer can’t attend funerals of the unbeloved.’

Heather sighs and I know what’s coming. ‘It’s lovely that you do what you do, Linda. But we both know it’s not actually part of the job description, just a nice little addition.’

I feel utterly patronized. ‘And how would you like it, Heather, if nobody turned up to your funeral.’ I realize what I’ve just said sounds ridiculous and, mercifully, she moves on.

‘Look,’ she sighs again, ‘it really is voluntary. You’re not obliged to do it, but if you decide to stay on we’d have to redeploy you to a different department, that’s all. Think about it.’

I nod respectfully and ask if there’s anything else she needs to discuss, before turning on my heel and leaving the room. As I do so, Heather says gently, ‘No shame in early retirement, Linda. Think of all the hobbies you could take up!’

I can barely concentrate this afternoon, mulling the whole thing over whilst writing my name in a two-hundred-gram bar of hazelnut chocolate for comfort. I always keep a good supply in my desk for emergencies.

My desk.

Whose desk will it become after I leave, I wonder? I’m just about to drop into a vat of self-pity – a place I rarely visit – when I get a call from reception to say someone called Ray Dalgleish is here to see me. My redundancy worry is soon forgotten and replaced by a flutter of excitement at the prospect of hearing the end of Wendy Taylor’s story. I grab the box of memorabilia and head down to reception, where I berate myself for breaking a golden rule in life: never assume sod all. Turns out Ray is not a man but Raynor, a very tall woman in her sixties with spiky red hair and a tattoo on her neck that says delicious.

‘She was never happy with Rafiq. Told me that from day one. We met in a launderette, you see. And there’s always a lot of waiting around in a launderette, so you get to know people quite quick.’

Raynor doesn’t seem able to stand still. She gives the impression of someone in a hurry, constantly running her fingers through her angry hair and checking behind her. ‘Within a week we were sleeping together.’

‘Good Lord!’ I blurt out. Wasn’t expecting that.

‘She was amazing in bed,’ Raynor continues.

‘Well, that’s lovely,’ I say, a tad self-conscious that we are in a

very public place and Raynor is rather loud. I hand her the box of memorabilia. ‘Anyway, here are Wendy’s things. There’s not much in there I’m afraid, but . . .’

‘When he found out he went ballistic. Looking at it now, I can understand why, but he was vile to her. Made her choose. Said if she chose me he’d cut her off without a penny and chuck her on to the streets. Hideous twat.’

By now I’ve been drawn in. I no longer care that colleagues are walking past and raising eyebrows. ‘She chose him, and he still chucked her out. I should have forgiven her, stayed with her, but I was so cut up at the time. I ended up being as big a hideous twat as Rafiq!’ At this she starts weeping, burying her head in my neck, leaving me with no option other than to comfort her in an embrace.

‘You know that in her will she forgave you?’

Raynor snuffles that she does. ‘Yeah, doesn’t help though, does it. All too late now. Anyway, cheers for this,’ she mumbles, taking the box and shuffling off.

The lives people live. We have no idea, do we?

5 Linda

It’s surprising how quickly you can change your mind about something. By the time I get home, I’ve done a complete U-turn on the whole early-retirement thing. The redundancy package is very tempting, for a start, and it does actually make sense to stop work while I’ve still got my marbles and the use of my legs. My mother always said I could turn a problem into a gift and so yes, I’m going to accept Heather’s offer and embrace this next chapter of my life with joy.

I’d always thought I’d dread retirement, that it would somehow seal the deal on the unavoidable arrival of old age. But now that I’ve accepted it, I’m excited at the prospect. And I’m already making plans. Most of them will involve my four-year-old grandson Zander, of course: full-time grandmotherhood is beckoning with open arms and I intend to run into them at speed. I’m already very hands-on in the childcare department, seeing as Zander lives with me. As does my son Struan. Thankfully, Struan’s wife Lauren –or rather ex-wife Lauren – does not. She lives an hour away in her home town of Bordgalsh and has done for the past year, since she and Struan split up. I’m happy keeping that distance, because Lauren is the embodiment of a nightmare daughter-in-law and certainly won’t feature in my retirement plans.

‘Bit out of the blue, Mum, isn’t it?’ Struan asks later on as he makes our nightly hot chocolate.

‘I suppose so,’ I say, ‘but now that I think about it, Heather’s had me in for several of her “chats” of late and I guess she was just testing the water to see how I’d react.’

‘And you’re sure you’re not rushing into it? ’Cos once you’ve left, you’ve left.’

‘Got to take a few risks in life, Struan, and to be honest, now I’ve decided, I’m feeling quite excited. I’m gonna do ballroom dancing, bake cakes for the farmers’ market – even take upholstery classes!’

‘Now that I have got to see!’

‘The best bit is that I can look after Zander!’

‘You already do,’ Struan replies with a smile.

‘But I can have him so much more, Struan. Which will give you more time to yourself . . .’ I hesitate and launch in. ‘And more time to maybe get out there and meet someone.’ I daren’t look at him when I say it, because it’s a very sensitive area. He knows I know he’s still in love with Lauren. I just pretend to be ignorant of the fact. As predicted, he changes the subject.

‘Don’t you think you’ll miss it, though?’

I pause for a moment, because, yes, of course I will. A bit. ‘The job’s changing, Stru. It’s not like it’ll be the same there any more.’ I think he can see the doubt on my face but decides to move on.

‘Go on then, what else are you gonna do?’

‘Well, d’you remember I always wanted to go paddleboarding on Loch Braemor?’

‘Ah yes.’

Neither of us allude to it, but I’m sure Struan, like me, is remembering an awkward conversation on the subject several months ago at a family pub lunch. Lauren was there that day when I shared my wish to paddleboard. Unsurprisingly, she made a few snide remarks about wetsuits.

‘Do they make them in your size, Linda?’

Lauren never passes up an opportunity to point out that I’m fat. Not incapacitatingly so – I mean, I’m still pretty agile for a

woman of my heft. I can dance the pants off a twenty-two-yearold, and my downward dog is the envy of many a thin girl. But in terms of actual body mass, I’m definitely the wrong side of a size 20. I’m not pretending when I say I really don’t mind being big – yes, being thinner would make life easier. I’d take up less room, I’d get more choice in clothes and I wouldn’t run the risk of embarrassment by not fitting into the seat on a ride in Alton Towers. But in general it doesn’t bother me.

What does bother me is that there’s a natural bias against you when you’re fat. For one thing, I think people expect you to be a bit thick. They also expect you to cower nervously and feel all self-conscious, pulling down the hem of your top to hide your big stomach or never eating in public for fear of being called Fatty. Well, I’m not that person. But when Lauren first met me, I think she expected me to be that person. And although I could bat away her fattist put-downs with razor-sharp comebacks, she still couldn’t quite resist sticking the knife in. ‘You’ll need to be careful, Linda,’ she’d continued. ‘Woman I know, she was big like you, and they couldn’t get a wetsuit to fit her. So she ended up doing it in leggings and a vest, got stung to hell by a jellyfish.’

‘They don’t have jellyfish in lochs, Lauren,’ I pointed out. ‘Fresh water, y’see.’ As well as being callous, Lauren is also quite intellectually challenged.

She’s beautiful, I’ll give her that, so I can see why Struan was attracted on a very superficial level. Everything else though? I just don’t get it. For a start, I’ve never really understood what she does for a living and why she needs so much help with childcare. I know she’s a sometime hand model because that’s her excuse for never doing the washing-up. And I think she’s been an energy worker, a dog groomer, a nail technician and a cook. Most recently she’s started influencing. ‘I’m an influencer, Linda. And I’m building up a really good following.’ I don’t really know what that means. Because for me, work has always been a Monday to Friday officehours affair. Though not for much longer, of course!

When I go to bed I lie there, eyes open and beaming. This

decision to stop work could be one of my best and I’m almost annoyed with myself for not doing it sooner. Heather suggested February as a retirement date and in my head I’ve started the countdown. Wendy Taylor will hopefully have been my last case and now all I need to do is enjoy Christmas, tidy my desk and get ready for the next chapter of my life.

6 Linda

A week later, and I’m sucking on a sherbet lemon whilst surfing the net for plus-size wetsuits, when an email comes in from my line manager, Gillian Coles. Bizarre when she’s sitting only fifteen feet away, but Gillian likes to get everything down in writing. The heading is ‘new case’, with a reference number and location: Levi Norman, seventy-three-year-old male, Isle of Storrich.

My heart sinks. Where’s the Isle of Storrich?? I ask, already dreading the answer will mean days away.

Gillian’s reply, as ever, is curt and to the point.

Off Roaken. Travel by ferry.

Oh for heaven’s sake. It’s a bit rich, this. Making me redundant, then sending me off on a big fat case three weeks before Christmas. Talk about getting their money’s worth. Also, if I start a new case now it will undoubtedly be left unresolved, and I’ll leave at the end of February with a messy desk, so to speak. And it’s not like it’s down the road. Some godforsaken island that I’ve never even heard of. In the middle of bloody winter.

Do I have to? I email back like a petulant child. Can’t Jean take Liam?

Liam on leave. Jean unviable – health issues. Call undertakers to assist. Leave tomorrow. Accom at Storrich Arms.

I wonder if in another life Gillian worked as a telegram writer or a Morse coder. She’d have made a good spy. I reply to her in the language she understands – Roger. On it – and spend the rest of the afternoon in a mildly bad mood. I’m doubly miffed when I find out that Jean’s ‘health issue’ preventing her from taking the Storrich case is that she gets seasick. Well, I’m sorry, Jean! Buy a packet of flippin’ Sea-legs. See an acupuncturist.

I start googling ‘The Storrich Arms’ and resentfully book myself a room.

I leave work at four and pick up my little Zander en route. By then, of course, my bad mood has lifted because seeing Zander’s little smiling face is enough to bust the biggest of black clouds. I bend down to my beloved grandson and scoop him up into a huge bingo-winged cuddle.

‘What have you got there, ma wee pet?’ I say, looking at his painting and inhaling the gorgeous scent of his hair. ‘Is it a tractor?’

‘It’s a shark,’ says his teacher, and quickly I correct myself.

‘Yes a shark, silly Nana Lind. That’s what I meant!’

We arrive home to the welcoming sight of Struan’s lasagne. I have to say, it’s quite a treat having food cooked for me, and an even bigger treat getting to share it at the table like a proper family.

‘How long will you be gone?’ asks Struan. I’ve just told him about the new case in Storrich.

‘It’s a two-hour drive to Roaken, then a ferry to the island. Reckon I’ll need at least two days there, maybe three, so all being well I’ll be home for the weekend.’

‘And you’re going alone?’

‘No, they’re organizing an undertaker to accompany me. It’s the woman from Murray’s – Ailsa something? She’ll pick me up tomorrow first thing and drive me there.’

‘God, not in a hearse, surely?’

‘Ha! Can you imagine! No love, it’s one of those Black Mariatype vehicles – a posh transit van, for want of a better description.

Essentially a hearse, but with no big rear windows or flower arrangements spelling out “DAD”. We have to bring the—’ I mouth the word body so as not to upset Zander, ‘back to the mainland, and the cremation will take place in Boransay for efficiency.’

‘God, Mum, your job. Honestly. Doesn’t it ever creep you out?’

‘Well, it’s not for much longer, is it? And these are exceptional circumstances: if there was a crem on the island then it’d be done and dusted. It’ll be my last case. So.’

Once the dishes are cleared I set about making dessert – strawberries, cream and my own home-made meringues. Can’t bear shop-bought, they disintegrate into powder and are crammed with chemicals. My meringues are heaven-sent, soft and sweet and slightly caramelish. I use my mother’s recipe – always makes me smile and think of her when I make them. I’m just spooning out the double cream when the bell goes. ‘I’ll get it,’ says Struan and heads to the front door, little Zander in tow. My heart sinks moments later when I hear Zander shout, ‘Mummy!’ and I dread what’s about to happen.

Lauren comes into the kitchen shrouded in an air of self-pity. God, she’s good. She should’ve been on the stage. ‘Hello, Linda,’ she says solemnly. ‘Struan tells me you’ve been sacked!’

‘What?’

‘No,’ Struan blusters, ‘I said made redundant, it’s not—’

‘Same thing,’ says Lauren, looking bored.

‘Actually, it’s neither. I’m taking early retirement, if you must know.’

My reply is stiff. Formal. But I can’t help it. As usual she’s turned up out of the blue – Christ, that woman is allergic to routine. Doesn’t she realize how destructive it is for my little Zander, not knowing if he’s coming or going? I try to be friendly. ‘Can I interest you in a meringue?’

‘God, no. I couldn’t eat a thing. Not for Zander either please, too much sugar before bed.’

‘Well, I was only going to give him a half portion—’ I reply, before Struan interrupts.

‘Best not to, eh, Mum?’ And in just that one sentence, I feel utterly betrayed. Ridiculous, I know. But the speed with which Struan takes her side is astonishing, and I feel hopeless. Not for myself. For him.

‘Actually, Linda, could you give us some privacy?’ Lauren asks. And I want to throttle her! I know the sensible thing would be to relent, to say yes of course, but I’ll be buggered if I’m going to let this witch of an ex-wife boss me around in my own home. ‘You’re very welcome to go in the front room if you want to talk,’ I say calmly. And I can feel Struan’s eyes on me, as he silently wills me not to start a row.

Lauren sighs. It’s that passive-aggressive wearied expression that she’s mastered so well. ‘Linda,’ she says quietly, ‘I’m really not strong enough right now for confrontation.’

‘I’m not confronting you, Lauren,’ I reply, just as quietly. ‘But you’ve not been in touch with your husband or your child for nearly a week and now you come waltzing in here telling me where I can and can’t sit. Well, you may think you can bully my son into doing what you want, but you won’t bully his mother, got it?’

Lauren gasps and runs out of the room. Struan glares at me before following her. ‘Thanks, Mum,’ he hisses. ‘Look after Zander.’ He doesn’t quite slam the door but leaves in enough of a fit to make his feelings known.

Me and Zander look at each other and I whisper, ‘D’you want one of Nannie Linda’s meringues now?’ He nods complicitly and we both dive in with our spoons.

Half an hour later, Lauren and Struan are still ‘talking’ in the front room. I take Zander up to bed for ‘wee-wees and teeth’, read him a story and settle him down for the night. Then I creep out of his room and into mine, to start packing for my trip to Storrich. I’ve checked the weather forecast online – Storrich being in the Gulf Stream, the elements there are different from inland. Despite it being December, the temperature is unlikely to be lower than ten degrees, with crisp sunshine and no rain. There’s a storm forecast for later in the week, but I’ll be back on dry land by then. I pack

two pairs of smart trousers, a fleece, a blouse and a jumper, along with two T-shirts and three pairs of pants. I always pride myself on my pants. That’s another thing you’re not expected to possess if you’re fat: glamorous knickers. But my underwear collection is beautiful. Even if I do say so myself. And even if it’s been a while since I’ve been able to show it off to anyone. Wearing nice knickers makes me feel sexy and alive. It’s true. And I always wear matching bras. I balk at the idea of wearing a clashing set. It’s wrong on so many levels. I put together a small travel washbag and pick out a nice nightie to wear. Then I have second thoughts and the old Girl Guide in me comes to life. What if the Storrich Arms is cold and draughty? Better pack some bedsocks in case. I’m just deciding whether or not to take a hot-water bottle when I hear the front door slam. I roll my eyes at absolutely no one and head downstairs to find out the latest.

‘Lauren wants me and Zander to move to Bordgalsh. To be nearer to her and her parents.’

‘Struan, it’s a whole hour away! And a ridiculous idea!!’

‘Not really, Mum, be fair. The travel back and forth is exhausting her.’

‘Exhausting her?? When?? On the two or three occasions she’s managed to make the journey?’

I. Am. Fuming.

‘Don’t be sarcastic, Mum, she’s not been that bad. And I can see her point – we do all need to live closer, for Zander’s sake.’

‘So tell her to move back to Boransay, then!’

He stops then and I can see he’s choosing his words carefully. ‘I think . . . I think Lauren wants her own parents to be more involved in Zander’s childcare. It’s difficult . . . your relationship with her . . . I mean, it’s not exactly . . . Look, you’re bound to be defensive of me, aren’t you?’

‘Well, of course I am!’

‘And Lauren senses this, and it makes her anxious. She says she needs to feel she’s in a safe space.’

‘Oh for the LOVE OF GOD!’ I say, too loudly, and Struan shushes me, pointing to the ceiling – a reminder that Zander is asleep. I take a deep breath.

‘Where will you live?’ I ask mournfully.

‘For the time being, Lauren’s brother has a friend with a spare room and—’

‘You’re going to house share!?’ I don’t bother to hide my disgust.

‘It’s a temporary thing, until I can find somewhere more permanent.’

Permanent. The word punches me in the stomach.

‘It’s what she wants,’ Struan adds quietly.

‘So what? What about what you want, Struan! You can’t just up sticks and turn your life upside down on a whim! What about your job? What about Zander? His school and everything?’

Struan sighs. ‘It’s not on a whim. She’s been thinking about it for a while, she said. She thinks it will make things easier. For everyone. Simon and Lucy can help out, and so can Lauren’s old friends. It makes complete sense, when you think about it.’

‘Hang on a minute!’ I’m nearly shouting again now. ‘What about me? I help out all the time! I’m helping out right now, for God’s sake, you’re staying in my house.’

‘Mum, calm down. You’re getting hysterical.’

I take a deep breath. If there’s one thing inclined to make me not calm, it’s being told to calm down. I shut my eyes and gather myself. This battle will not be won with raised voices.

‘Okay,’ I say, more to myself than to Struan. ‘When is this move going to take place? Surely not till the summer? You’ll want Zander to finish the school y—’

‘After Christmas,’ he says. ‘New Year seems as good a time as any.’ His voice fades, and he can’t look at me when he speaks. I hold my hand up. I don’t want to hear any more. It’s too, too much. Simon and Lucy are stealing my boys. And my heart is going to break.

‘I need to finish packing,’ I say, a lump growing bigger in my throat. ‘Zander went off straight away. I read him The Cat in the

Hat.’ I want to cry when I say it. I know Bordgalsh is only an hour away, but it may as well be on the other side of the world. Reading Dr Seuss will become Simon and Lucy’s job now, a thing of the past for me. And there was I thinking it was a thing of the future – a regular shared joy in my forthcoming retirement. What’s the saying? If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans. I rush upstairs and shut the door behind me before I pull my secret supply box from under the bed. Inside are dozens of chocolate bars: Caramels, Wispas, Dairy Milks, Galaxies, Mars bars, Twixes – the lot. Still sat on the floor, I hurriedly rip the wrapper off one and wolf it down almost in a single go, then start on the second. After seven bars, breathless, sweating and nauseous, I shut my eyes and tell myself to stop. Enough now. Enough. As I clean my teeth in a pathetic attempt to rid myself of the binge after-effects, my eyes are streaming with tears.

7 Linda

The following morning I come downstairs with my holdall to be greeted by Struan and Zander at the breakfast counter, my little man all ready for school. I try and smile when I speak but I’m overcome with a tremendous sense of what must be separation anxiety. My head is dull and my mouth is dry from last night’s self-sabotage and there’s an ache, a longing, lodged right in the middle of my breast-bone. I manage a ‘Have you had enough breakfast?’

‘Yes. We had porridge, didn’t we, Zand? D’you need a wee before we go?’ He’s asking Zander, not me. Zander shakes his head. ‘Okay, well, let’s get your coat on, then, shall we?’

There’s an awkward silence as Struan guides his little boy’s arms inside the sleeves. I watch Zander chatting away to Foxy, his stuffed vulpine friend who’s never left his side since he was born, unaware of the change coming at him over the horizon.

‘Will you let me know when you get to—’

‘Storrich,’ I say.

‘Yes. Just text me to let me know you’ve landed.’

‘If they’ve got reception. You know what the islands are like.’

There’s another awkward silence between us. ‘I want you to wish us well, Mum. I want you to want it to work.’