of the mourners started to retch themselves. The vicar’s face…
It was the primary topic of conversation at the wake which followed. All conceivable options were considered: my mother had fainted and I had tried to catch her; she’d suddenly been taken unwell and had fallen against me; we were both so grief-stricken that one or both of us were trying to throw ourselves into the grave. My mother, pale and weeping, replenishing her bloodstream with more gin and fanning herself with the Order of Service, kept a close eye on me at the wake and, afterwards, it was never spoken of again.
Briarstone Chronicle
March
Dead Woman Lay Undiscovered ‘For Up To A Year’, Police Report
The body of a woman was discovered yesterday at a house in Laurel Crescent, Briarstone. A police spokesperson said that the body was in an advanced state of decomposition and was found in the bedroom to the rear of the detached property.
The building is one of several in Laurel Crescent scheduled for demolition and police were called after construction workers noticed that the building was apparently still occupied.
Letters found at the address indicate that the deceased may have lain undiscovered for up to a year. The name of the deceased has not been made public as police and the coroner try to trace relatives or anyone who may have known the woman.
Judith
My name is Judith May Bingham, and when I died I was ninety-one.
I was afraid of many things until the end, which sounds very silly now because of course at the end nothing matters, nothing matters at all. I was afraid of the people who lived next door, the teenage boys who came and went whenever they felt like it, and banged the door, and sat outside my house on the pavement, or even once on my fence, until they broke it. They would drive up and down the street on their motorcycles, or sit smoking and drinking from cans and shouting and throwing things at each other.
I was afraid of running out of money and not being able to buy food or keep the house warm.
I grew to be afraid of going out.
I was afraid of the woman who came from Social Services once to check up on me. She said she had heard I might need some extra help. I told her I did not, but she kept talking and talking until I asked her to leave. In fact I told her to fuck off. She wasn’t expecting to hear that and she tried to tell me off. She said she had a right to a pleasant working environment the same as anyone else and that there was no need for me to be rude. I said there was no need for her to speak to me in my own home as though I was an imbecile, and that I had asked her to leave nicely and she had ignored me.
At that time I was brave – and when she went and I locked the door behind her I laughed for a little while. It had been a long time since I used that word, and it felt good. It felt like being young again.
Forty years ago I was running a pub by the docks. It was a rough place. We had some nights where hardly anyone came in, and other nights when a ship or two had put in to shore when the place was full and people were spilling out on to the street outside. We had working girls in, too. When my husband Stan was alive he used to try to send them on their way, but as far as I was concerned their money was as good as anyone else’s. What they did to earn a crust was neither here nor there.
We had fights all the time. It was part of the plan for them when they came off a ship – get drunk, find a girl, get into a fight, sober up, back to the ship in time for the tide. If we were lucky they took their disagreements outside; if we were unlucky the odd chair and several glasses might get broken. Once a young lad was stabbed. That was terrible; he lived, though. Was fine, after. A few stitches and on his way.
Back in those days I wasn’t afraid of anything. I lived every day as it came and I expected there to be bad days; I knew I would get through them just the same as I