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has two left. Heā€™s been playing in the street on his micro scooter, then coming in moaning that it canā€™t do the same things as the stunt scooters that the slightly older boys in the street have.

I trudge around the supermarket, throwing in other items for his birthday, small gifts to open; chocolate, a frisbee, a DVD. Then some party decorations, and a birthday cake. Iā€™ve hardly shopped for over a week, so I fill the trolley up.

The neighbours have been wonderful in leaving the odd casserole and shopping basics on the doorstep, but they donā€™t think about things like Jackā€™s Nutella, breakfast cereal and biscuits.

As I unload the bags into the Jeep, I feel a sense of normality. Outwardly, thereā€™s no difference between me and the other women loading their cars up.

I have a flashback to when I used to shop with Grandma. I recall millionaire shortcake, Appletize and Turkish Delight. If I hadnā€™t had her in my life, Iā€™d be even more messed up. I hate being my motherā€™s daughter. A part of me wishes sheā€™d disappear back with that Shane and leave us all alone. She wants the best of all worlds ā€“ Iā€™ve never known anybody so selfish.

Iā€™ve nearly arranged my husbandā€™s funeral. I couldnā€™t feel any less normal. Only when it is over, can any sort of order return.

* * *

The not knowing is killing me.

Pardon the pun.

Things are quiet. Too quiet.

Perhaps this is the calm before the storm.

Chapter 35

I donā€™t know what I would do without Dad. Iā€™ve woken late, so heā€™s got Jack dressed and breakfasted. Heā€™s taken him to school, so the house is in silence.

Iā€™m sleeping like Iā€™m dead. Each morning I have a moment when it could be just another day, then within a minute, reality smacks me around the head. Itā€™s nearly forty-eight hours since I was at the police station. I may have to take matters into my own hands if I donā€™t hear from them soon.

I reach for my phone and see that thereā€™s nine plus Facebook notifications. Itā€™s the usual stuff. Top man ā€“ will be sadly missed ā€¦ condolences to Fiona and Jackā€¦ Gone too soon. RIPā€¦ So sorry to hear this awful news, sending love to the family. And on, and on. I click ā€˜likeā€™ next to each one in acknowledgement, though itā€™s them, they are enabling to feel better with these condolence messages, not me.

I decide I should probably write something. It would be expected. Under all the comments, I put. Thanks for all the messages of condolence at this awful time ā€“ they mean a lot. Funeral details to be announced on Robā€™s page.

I go through to his page and type: Funeral Announcement. A celebration of Rob Mathersonā€™s life will be held this Friday, 19th June at 11:30 am. It will take place at Rawdon Crematorium, followed byā€¦

I havenā€™t even thought about that. I stop typing and think. The golf club. I search for Otley Golf Club and hit call. The lady who answers couldnā€™t be more sympathetic when I say who I am and why Iā€™m calling.

ā€œHow many mourners are you expecting Mrs Matherson?ā€

ā€œIā€™m not sure to be honest. Fifty maybe.ā€

ā€œRob was really popular here,ā€ she says. ā€œHe will be so missed by everyone. I think there could be at least thirty or so of his golf club friends wanting to be there ā€“ theyā€™ve even had a whip around for you.ā€

ā€œReally?ā€ This brings tears to my eyes. I never expected that. Maybe it will cover the cost of the wake.

As if she is a mind reader, she says, ā€œAnd as Rob was such a valued member of this club, Iā€™d like to offer the room free, and give you a twenty percent discount on the catering. Weā€™re so sorry for your loss Mrs Matherson. Weā€™ve all been so shocked about it.ā€

I gulp. ā€œThank you. I donā€™t know what to say. Youā€™re very kind. I guess Iā€™d better ask you to cater for around seventy then. He was an active member of his cycle club too. He lived for his golf and cycling.ā€

ā€œIā€™m sure he lived for you and your little boy as well.ā€ She pauses. ā€œWhat time do you think youā€™ll arrive? Iā€™ll have everything set up in advance and get extra bar staff on so I can come to the service too.ā€

My ears inadvertently prick up at the mention of the word bar. Itā€™s an ingrained response. In fact, if I bring to mind the funerals I have had to attend with Rob over the years, Iā€™ve always ended up sozzled. Even when I attended one for his colleague with him, someone who I had never even met! Iā€™ll never forget the disapproving glare of Phillip Bracken. I had felt like a naughty schoolgirl. This had encouraged me all the more.

I end the call and return to writing the Facebook announcement.

ā€¦followed by a wake at Otley Golf Club. Family flowers only please. A donation plate will be made available to collect funds for Shelter UK.

I donā€™t even need to think about the choice of charity. I know Shelter isnā€™t connected with Robā€™s death, but itā€™s the charity I always support, given the choice. Their outreach service gave me so much help when I was on my uppers in my late teens, even sorting me a hostel place for a time. Then they helped me get my own supported tenancy and put me on a substance misuse programme. Iā€™d have probably been dead without them. Iā€™m lucky I crawled back from that time in my life. No thanks to my dear mother.

Dad and I have since discussed it; he feels dreadful that I sank so low as to have been homeless, and heavily alcohol dependent at such a young age. When I first left home at sixteen, unbeknown to Mum, Dad met me a few times; he would give me money and take me for

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