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  RichmondGirl: I ate sandwiches by Peg’s Pond, then followed the horse ride back past Pembroke Lodge, and back to Richmond Gate.

  KewGuy: You used to love the seeing the rhododendrons in flower.

  RichmondGirl: Then we cut through Duchess’ Wood, past the Royal Ballet School, past Pen Ponds and all the way down to the Isabella Plantation.

  RichmondGirl: We visited Richmond Park together. I did a circuit of the place. We followed the horse ride from Richmond Gate to begin with.

  RichmondGirl: So I decided to spend the day with you instead.

  RichmondGirl: The sun was streaming in through the bedroom window and I turned to watch you sleeping – like I used to – but you weren’t there.

  RichmondGirl: I woke up this morning and, for the first time in three weeks, forgot that you’d gone.

  .

  .

  .

  KewGuy: It’s the most real thing I’ve ever known.

  RichmondGirl: I like the pain. Pain is real. It helps me to remember that – with you gone – that what we had was real.

  KewGuy: It’s only a poem. I know you won’t forget really. I was only trying to make you feel better, to help ease your pain.

  RichmondGirl: You’re quoting bloody Christina Rossetti now? What if I don’t want to forget?

  KewGuy: And it will get easier, in time. It is better that you forget and are happy than you remember and are sad.

  RichmondGirl: I know.

  KewGuy: But you won’t. I know you won’t. If our experience taught us anything it’s that life is precious and not to be wasted.

  RichmondGirl: Sometimes I feel I could end it all, just like that.

  KewGuy: And I meant it. But life is for the living and you’re far from done living yours.

  RichmondGirl: Forever, you said.

  KewGuy: I know.

  RichmondGirl: You were what was right for me.

  KewGuy: That’s alright. Don’t worry. I understand. I probably would have done the same. Whatever’s right for you. That’s what’s important now.

  RichmondGirl: I suppose now’s a good a time to tell you as any. I’ve put it on the market.

  RichmondGirl: I don’t know why I call it home anymore. It doesn’t feel like home, not without you there. In fact…

  KewGuy: How is the old place? The flat I mean?

  RichmondGirl: That was like a mantra for us, wasn’t it? So I turned around and headed home.

  KewGuy: I remember. Never go anywhere on a match day, unless you’re going to the match itself.

  RichmondGirl: I ended up at Twickenham, at the stadium, but that felt wrong too. We hardly ever went and the traffic used to wind us up on match days.

  RichmondGirl: So then I went past the golf course. But that was all you. It certainly isn’t me so it could never be us, could it? It wasn’t right.

  RichmondGirl: Plenty of hopes and dreams there, that’s for sure, but most of them end up in tatters and that wasn’t what I wanted for you.

  RichmondGirl: I started with Kempton Park but it didn’t seem like the calmest place to spend eternity. And the atmosphere wasn’t right.

  RichmondGirl: I tried again today. Took you off the shelf and did a tour of some of your favourite sporting venues.

  KewGuy: You will. One day.

  RichmondGirl: You mean you’re smiling now? I wish I could see your smile again.

  KewGuy: Probably for the best. You always did know how to put a smile on my face.

  RichmondGirl: I’m sorry, but I thought that if I told her it would only cause more problems than it was worth, so we went for coffee instead.

  RichmondGirl: I was going to take you to the park, or down by the river, but I ran into Susan outside the bank and couldn’t tell her what I was doing.

  RichmondGirl: I made a start today. I put you in my bag – the one you bought me from Fat Face – and took you into town.

  .

  .

  .

  KewGuy: Like I said, there’s no rush. It has to feel right.

  RichmondGirl: I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t ready.

  RichmondGirl: I took you down off the mantelpiece for the first time this morning. Gave the mantelpiece and you a good dust and then put you back again.

  .

  .

  .

  KewGuy: And when you’re ready to say goodbye, scatter them there. Then move on.

  KewGuy: That’s for you to decide. Take your time, there’s no hurry, but when you’re ready and you think you’ve found the right spot.

  RichmondGirl: But where?

  KewGuy: I need you to take that urn from the mantelpiece and scatter the ashes inside somewhere that meant something to us both.

  RichmondGirl: It feels like that was only a week ago, not five years. So what do you need me to do?

  KewGuy: You’ve always loved me, just like I’ve always loved you, I think from the first moment we met at that bus stop outside Kew Gardens.

  KewGuy: I know, but I know you will. You’ll do it for me, because you love me.

  RichmondGirl: What you’re asking me to do feels like the hardest thing anybody’s ever asked me to do, right now.

  KewGuy: I know. Just like I could never forget you. But that’s not what I’m asking you to do.

  RichmondGirl: You have no idea how much I miss such simple intimacy. I don’t want to forget you.

  RichmondGirl: All I want is to and feel your hands on my body again. To feel you inside me. Just once more. To feel your fingers in my hair.

  KewGuy: I want you to have time to heal. I want you to live a rewarding life. I want you to be happy, to fall in love again.

  KewGuy: You have to. Not for me but for you, because it’s not healthy. You can’t stay like this for the rest of your life, weighed down by grief.

  RichmondGirl: What if I don’t want to?

  KewGuy: Only you can do it, my darling.

  KewGuy: You need to let me go. And only you can release me.

  RichmondGirl: Sorry? No, it’s me who should be sorry. It wasn’t your fault was it?

  KewGuy: I know. And I’m sorry.

  RichmondGirl: The natural order of things? Neither is dying from cancer at 35!

  KewGuy: But this isn’t how it’s meant to be. This isn’t the natural order of things.

  RichmondGirl: And I read them over and over and over again. We have a chance to say all those things that bastard illness prevented us from saying in time.

  RichmondGirl: Is that such a bad thing? I mean, we can talk again. Well, not talk exactly, but when I read your posts, it’s your voice I hear.

  KewGuy: I’m trapped here.

  RichmondGirl: Tell me.

  KewGuy: I don’t understand how I can be here either. But I think I understand why.

  RichmondGirl: But how can we be talking like this, via Twitter?

  KewGuy: It’s me. And everything will be alright. You’ll see. Trust me.

  RichmondGirl: I so want it to be you. I so want you to be able to tell me everything will be alright again.

  RichmondGirl: There’s been a hole in my heart since you… since you died. It’s like I’m just a shell, a shell hiding the great black gulf inside me.

  KewGuy: I don’t exactly understand it myself.

  RichmondGirl: But why are you here? I mean I still can’t quite believe it, but I want to. I want to believe it’s you.

  KewGuy: I don’t know. I prefer not to ask in case it all comes to an end.

  RichmondGirl: It really is you. But how can it be? How is that possible?

  KewGuy: And the first thing you ever said to me was, ‘Excuse me, does the 65 to Ealing go from here?’

  KewGuy: Your first pet was a budgie called Sid. You love rum and raisin ice cream but you never ask for it because it makes you sound like your dad.

  KewGuy: What else can I say to prove it to you? That your favourite biscuits are custard creams? You lost your virginity in 1992 on a camping trip?

  RichmondGirl: It really is you?
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  KewGuy: I wanted to tell you that love like ours never dies, no matter what might happen to our bodies. The cancer couldn’t take that away from us.

  KewGuy: I know it sounds corny now, but what we shared was true love.

  KewGuy: I wanted to tell you that I’ll love you forever, that I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel for you. That what we had was true.

  KewGuy: But I wanted to say so much. I hadn’t had a chance to say thank you for the last five years. For the best five years of my life.

  KewGuy: I didn’t say anything – I couldn’t. But I squeezed your hand as tight as I could as I slipped away, until I couldn’t even feel anything.

  RichmondGirl: And what did you say?

  KewGuy: You said to me, ‘Those geraniums could do with some more water.’

  KewGuy: You held my hand in yours and having told me that you’d love me forever, after you’d kissed my eyes, my lips, my cheeks…

  KewGuy: As I was lying there in that hospital bed, the cancer eating me up from the inside, unable to even open my eyes…

  RichmondGirl: What was the last thing I said to you?

  KewGuy: Anything. Go on. Ask me.

  KewGuy: Ask me something. Ask me anything. Something only you and I could possibly know.

  RichmondGirl: In fact I can’t believe I’m even carrying on with this charade, playing your pathetic little games. Is this what you get off on you sicko?

  RichmondGirl: I watched your coffin slide beyond those disgusting, tatty red curtains while some old biddy played some ruddy dirge on the organ.

  RichmondGirl: It can’t be you! How could you be watching me?

  KewGuy: The sight of you, looking so upset, yours eyes puffy and red with tears, tore me apart.

  RichmondGirl: Don’t say that!

  KewGuy: I know. I was there too, watching you.

  RichmondGirl: Never mind lost – you’re dead! I sat there by your beside watching you die.

  KewGuy: I understand how you must be feeling right now. I can hardly believe it myself. But you must believe, otherwise I’m lost.

  RichmondGirl: Go away! Leave me alone! I’ll have you reported for this.

  KewGuy: Because I know you want it to be true with all your heart.

  KewGuy: Because I know you. Because right now, no matter how impossible this may seem I know that you want it to be true.

  RichmondGirl: How do you know what I do or do not want? Who are you to make that call?

  KewGuy: You don’t mean that. You don’t want that, not really.

  RichmondGirl: FUCK OFF! There, is that better?

  KewGuy: You never did like swearing online, did you?

  RichmondGirl: F*** off! and leave me alone!

  KewGuy: This isn’t a joke. It’s really me.

  RichmondGirl: Who is this? What kind of sick joke do you think you’re playing?

  KewGuy: I know you’re there and I know how strange, how unreal this must seem, but please respond.

  KewGuy: Are you there, my darling?

  KewGuy: Hello?

  KewGuy: Hello? Is there anybody there?

  33 days ago via web…

  WANDSWORTH

  Chicken Run

  Melanie McGee

  How many fish slices does one woman need? This is a question many an enquiring mind has asked. In Shirley’s case, ‘about 73’ would appear to be the correct answer. Or at least that’s the conclusion Shirley herself comes to as she stands on the street in her finest ‘moving house outfit’ (brown slacks that cling in such a way as to display one hell of a camel-toe, and a maroon fleece), and attempts to jam another bin liner full of pointless kitchen implements into the boot of her lilac Fiat thingameejig.

  She doesn’t even like cooking. Were you to offer up your dough balls, with the express intent of having Shirley tease them into something delicious upon which to nibble, the result would be some sub-standard fumbling and a quick resolution by way of calling in the professionals – i.e. she’d dump them in the trash, buzz up the those trusty chaps at Pizza GoGo (opposite the funeral parlour on West Hill – no connection inferred) and demand two of their finest ‘Beefy Ones’ with extra garlic slices and a bottle of pop to boot. So how, in the name of Rod, Jane and Freddy, she has ended up with three bin liners full of cooking utensils is a mystery only Jessica Fletcher can solve.

  She shoves one last box of possessions into the footwell and goes back to waggle her key in the lock of the front door for the last time. As she posts the key back through the letterbox with the penchant for human finger-flavoured snacks, she recalls the day she’d first bowled through the door as a grumpy 23 year old. The rental agency had sent a right haughty sort to show her in. This posh (but bonkers) woman spent a good 40 minutes explaining how to sit on a sofa correctly so as not to damage it, and precisely which ecologically sound cleaning products should be used on different surfaces. She had to admit that even now, at a slightly more grown-up 33 years old, she still put malt vinegar on her chips more regularly than on the tap fittings.

  Despite the strange estate agent she had been excited to move into her first home. Ok it was rented and ok it was small but it was only four minutes from Wandsworth Town station and the newsagent across the road stayed open 24 hours – a vital tool in feeding her obsessive Monster Munch habit. All in all, a score, so today she isn’t exactly brimming with glee.

  The realization that she would need to pack away her fish slices and ship out thundered into her life as she splayed out on the sofa the Friday before last. She was keenly eyeing up Cash in the Attic while slowly pushing a corned beef sandwich into her face when she detected the sound of her telephone bell. Placing the receiver to her ear, the drum within picked up the unmistakable sound of her mother’s voice. This in itself was not unusual, Doreen called Shirley every second week without fail, but it was the urgency with which Doreen jabbered that caused Shirley to peel her peepers away from the box and fire up the ears for some serious listening time.

  ‘It’s my chickens,’ yelped Doreen, ‘they’ve run amok!’ (Doreen had kept chickens in the back garden of her semi-detached, three-bed, postwar, red-brick, with-views-over-the-sea property, since 1964).

  ‘What, mother, precisely do you mean when you say amok?’ was the sensible question with which Shirley replied.

  ‘Amok, you silly girl, AMOK! Did I spend all that money on an education for you not to understand the word ‘amok’ when I use it? Good Lord child, put a dictionary on your Christmas list and after Santa has delivered it, study it with earnest.’

  ‘I went to state school mother, you didn’t pay a bean, and I am in clear possession of the dictionary definition, I simply wish for you to clarify it in relation to Biffy, Jean and Poirot.’ Poor old Shirley did well to keep her lip buttoned down, many other girls would have bitten back at such verbal abuse, but Shirley knew it was the panic talking. Since Doreen’ s beloved Jim had dropped stone dead from a heart attack in the yoghurt aisle of a Tesco Metro some three years past, she’d noticed her mother becoming kerfuffled on a distinctly more frequent basis, so she played it calm and waited for the facts to come forth.

  ‘They’ve snuck into the house Shirley! How, I simply don’t know! I was in the kitchen nook, fingering through an old copy of Fanny Craddock’s ‘Bon Viveur Recipes’ with a view to whipping up a boiled beef platter, when I heard the unmistakable sound of claw upon lino, I looked down and there, Shirley, was Biffy, tap-dancing across the floor. Before I knew it Jean and Poirot had joined him and now they’ve formed some sort of be-feathered conga-line and are making their way towards the downstairs loo. Oh Shirley, your Father’s ashes are in there, what if they’ve got a mind to knock him clean out of his urn. They know he never had love for them. Perhaps they are out for revenge.’

  ‘Mother. Calm down, please. It’s Biffy, Jean and Poirot, not a herd of rabid elephants. They’ve crept into the house plenty of times before and they’ve never had a mind for revenge, so just take a big deep breath. You know perfectly
well how to round them up and flush them out. You’ve done it a million times. Just get something to flap about and wave it at them until they head back out of the door.’

  Shirley spoke with level authority and after repeating these instructions a few times Doreen gathered herself together, replaced the telephone back in it’s cradle, grabbed the tea-towel with the stain where Princess Diana’s nose should be, and ushered those naughty wee beaks back outside.

  ***

  Most of this is, of course, by the by. Doreen’s chickens were back in the garden and Shirley caught the last 10 minutes of Cash in the Attic so, in theory, all was once again right with the world. But the confusion in her mother’s voice sat queerly in Shirley’s belly for the rest of the day. The following day it was that same queer feeling that prompted her to rap on the door of her boss’s office, look him squarely in the eye and hand him the resignation lemon. She then called her estate agent and gave her the very same treatment. She had made the momentous decision to leave Wandsworth Town and go home to look after her mother. This is why, on this cold Saturday afternoon, we find her ramming all her worldly goods into her daft little car, ready to set off for the grey and dismal coastal town of her birth.

  Pinging up the old engine she looks back at her flat in Shoreham Close for the last time and with a sharp pang of sadness prodding at her slightly pudgy tummy she pulls out onto Barchard Street ready to turn right onto Wandsworth Town’s notorious gyratory system one final time.

  Within moments said pang of sadness is replaced by a yowl of frustration. The queue on Fairfield Street to join the traffic on the main high street is long enough to make Shirley squint. Not that this should surprise her, and nor does it. The appalling traffic situation on this one-way system is so well known it has dropped its last name. It’s just that on this, her parting trip from a decade spent in the most wonderful city the Baby Jesus (and/or any other deity that may/may not exist) ever did create; she wants it to feel a little bit dramatic. She even had a finger on the volume button ready to crank up the stereo so she can whizz away whilst singing along to that…erhem…iconic end of an era tune ‘Don’t you, forget about me’. True, she was no Molly Ringwald and in Wandsworth Town she had never found her Judd Nelson, but it was the end of something special all the same and she does not want her final departure to consist of three hours sat behind a rusty Renault Cleo with an unsmiling child staring coldly into her eyes from his back seat as if Lucifer himself has inhabited his body and is trying to kidnap her soul so he can drag it back to Hell – or perhaps the boy is just in a bad mood. Either way, it is not the finale she has imagined. She removes her finger from the volume button. The desire to sing, all but disappeared.