which were intrinsically Jay: his blood-red cashmere scarf, his Panama Jack boots, his Laguiole knife, his ancient iPod – he’d had one long before anyone else, but still had the original. Jay was an early adopter yet appreciated longevity over innovation.
Archie looked out at the congregation as he spoke, at all the friends and neighbours who had been part of their lives over the years. To his left was a gaggle of Jay’s mates from university; to the right, almost the entire rugby club. He counted at least five ex-girlfriends, including the one Jay had dumped when he had first been diagnosed, her eyes red from a night-time of tears, her long fingers worrying at a shredded tissue. Then there were Jay’s parents, his brother and two sisters, a rank of cousins, his elderly grandmother. And Archie’s own parents, of course.
His mum was worried about him, and the fact he was taking Jay’s death so hard. He had barely slept since that awful moment when the consultant had come out to tell them the transplant had failed. Something had died in him, too. Hope, trust, optimism, belief – a part of his soul had gone with his friend.
‘You take all the time off you need,’ said his dad. ‘I can manage. Your mum can help me with the cattle. The cottages aren’t booked up yet till after Easter. We’ll cope.’
After the funeral, everyone went for drinks at the Marlborough Arms. The landlord had laid out a trestle table with sausage rolls and pork pie and local cheese, thickly buttered tea-loaf and fruitcake and Victoria sponge oozing jam and cream. Jay’s parents stayed until five and then went home. Archie was torn between escorting them back to their house to make sure they were all right, and mixing with the hard core of friends who were going to carry on toasting Jay for the rest of the night.
‘You stay here, love,’ said Jay’s mother. ‘We’ll be all right. To be honest, I just want to go to bed.’
He stayed, because he felt as if he were the host. It was like the party to end all parties. All night, he felt as if Jay was going to walk in at any moment, grab a pint from the bar and start flirting with the nearest pretty girl, but he didn’t. Of course he didn’t.
At one point, Archie went outside. He felt overwhelmed. There were too many faces from the past, too many memories, a mix of people who might only have come together had Jay ever got married – a wedding that was now never going to be. He sat at the table that had always been theirs when they drank outside in the sunshine, the one nearest the hatch that served the foaming pints of Honeycote, the local ale. He took out his phone and started checking his emails for something to do, something to take his mind off what was happening.
He frowned. There was one from an address he didn’t recognise. Not On The Shelf? What was that? The subject read ‘Congratulations’. Spam, no doubt. Some hard sell disguised as a win, probably.
His eyes flicked over the contents of the email. Then he frowned, and read it again slowly.
Dear Mr Harbinson,
It is with great delight that we would like to inform you that you are one of the two winners of our competition to win a night on the Orient Express. Our team of highly experienced matchmakers chose you from a considerable number of entries, and your companion for the journey is Emmie Dixon, whose profile we enclose for your interest. All we ask is for you both to have your photograph taken on departure at Victoria Station for publicity purposes, then the rest of this journey of a lifetime is yours to enjoy in total privacy . . .
The letter went on, detailing dates, times and travel arrangements.
Archie was mystified at first. He hadn’t entered a competition. It must be a scam – no doubt they would ask him for his credit-card details at some point. Then, as he read through it again, he remembered that afternoon in the hospital – Jay snickering over something in a magazine.
Jay had set him up. Jay had
Archie looked out at the congregation as he spoke, at all the friends and neighbours who had been part of their lives over the years. To his left was a gaggle of Jay’s mates from university; to the right, almost the entire rugby club. He counted at least five ex-girlfriends, including the one Jay had dumped when he had first been diagnosed, her eyes red from a night-time of tears, her long fingers worrying at a shredded tissue. Then there were Jay’s parents, his brother and two sisters, a rank of cousins, his elderly grandmother. And Archie’s own parents, of course.
His mum was worried about him, and the fact he was taking Jay’s death so hard. He had barely slept since that awful moment when the consultant had come out to tell them the transplant had failed. Something had died in him, too. Hope, trust, optimism, belief – a part of his soul had gone with his friend.
‘You take all the time off you need,’ said his dad. ‘I can manage. Your mum can help me with the cattle. The cottages aren’t booked up yet till after Easter. We’ll cope.’
After the funeral, everyone went for drinks at the Marlborough Arms. The landlord had laid out a trestle table with sausage rolls and pork pie and local cheese, thickly buttered tea-loaf and fruitcake and Victoria sponge oozing jam and cream. Jay’s parents stayed until five and then went home. Archie was torn between escorting them back to their house to make sure they were all right, and mixing with the hard core of friends who were going to carry on toasting Jay for the rest of the night.
‘You stay here, love,’ said Jay’s mother. ‘We’ll be all right. To be honest, I just want to go to bed.’
He stayed, because he felt as if he were the host. It was like the party to end all parties. All night, he felt as if Jay was going to walk in at any moment, grab a pint from the bar and start flirting with the nearest pretty girl, but he didn’t. Of course he didn’t.
At one point, Archie went outside. He felt overwhelmed. There were too many faces from the past, too many memories, a mix of people who might only have come together had Jay ever got married – a wedding that was now never going to be. He sat at the table that had always been theirs when they drank outside in the sunshine, the one nearest the hatch that served the foaming pints of Honeycote, the local ale. He took out his phone and started checking his emails for something to do, something to take his mind off what was happening.
He frowned. There was one from an address he didn’t recognise. Not On The Shelf? What was that? The subject read ‘Congratulations’. Spam, no doubt. Some hard sell disguised as a win, probably.
His eyes flicked over the contents of the email. Then he frowned, and read it again slowly.
Dear Mr Harbinson,
It is with great delight that we would like to inform you that you are one of the two winners of our competition to win a night on the Orient Express. Our team of highly experienced matchmakers chose you from a considerable number of entries, and your companion for the journey is Emmie Dixon, whose profile we enclose for your interest. All we ask is for you both to have your photograph taken on departure at Victoria Station for publicity purposes, then the rest of this journey of a lifetime is yours to enjoy in total privacy . . .
The letter went on, detailing dates, times and travel arrangements.
Archie was mystified at first. He hadn’t entered a competition. It must be a scam – no doubt they would ask him for his credit-card details at some point. Then, as he read through it again, he remembered that afternoon in the hospital – Jay snickering over something in a magazine.
Jay had set him up. Jay had
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