are meant to be boring so that they’ll send you to sleep.”
“And I’m too old for the ‘three pigs’ story. It’s for babies.”
“I like it,” Ella shot back. “And I’m not a baby.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I . . . am . . . not. You’re a baby.”
“No. You are.”
“OK—enough,” I said. “Nobody’s a baby. Now can I please carry on with the story?”
At this point, Dan threw back his duvet and began jumping on the bed.
“Dan, stop that! You’re going to damage the springs. Come on . . . settle down, both of you. It’s way past bedtime.”
Dan carried on jumping. “So, Mum . . . is Dad a skeleton yet?”
“What?”
Judy, the grief therapist, had warned me that one of the ways children cope with death and try to make sense of it is to gather information. As the months passed, I should be prepared for more rather than fewer questions on the subject. “And don’t be surprised if they become a bit obsessed—particularly with the more macabre aspects. Ghosts, the devil and hell might well become hot topics.”
We’d had the occasional discussion about ghosts and whether Mike might come back as one. Dan pretended to be intrigued by the idea, but I could tell that it scared him. My response was unequivocal. There were no such things as ghosts.
Dan wondered if there was TV in heaven. If there was, did Dad get to watch football? And did they get earth news or heaven news? He decided they probably got both.
Neither of the kids had mentioned cadavers. Until now. “So, is Dad a skeleton?” Dan repeated the words slowly—in case I hadn’t heard the first time.
“I don’t know. . . . Dan, will you
please
stop jumping.”
“Mum, tell Dan to shut up. My daddy’s not a skeleton.”
“Maybe not yet,” Dan came back, landing hard on his rear. “But he will be once his body has rotted. That takes ages. He’s most likely still got worms and maggots crawling inside him, eating his flesh.”
Ella burst into tears and started howling. I got up from Dan’s bed, moved across to hers and pulled her onto my lap.
“Dan, that’s enough. If you want to talk about this, come to me. But I will not have you upsetting your sister, and especially not at bedtime.”
“I want my own room,” Ella sobbed. “I hate Dan. I hate him. I had my own room in the old house.”
“I know, hon, but for the time being you two are going to have to get used to sharing.”
“But why do we have to share? Why did we have to leave the old house?”
“You know why. Now that Daddy isn’t here anymore, there isn’t as much money coming in as there used to be.” The children still knew nothing about Mike’s gambling or all the debt he’d left, and while they were young, I intended for it to stay that way.
“So we’re poor and we’re going to starve like Bob Cratchit and all the people in Africa. . . .”
“What? No. Dad’s been gone for months—have we starved so far? I’ve got my job, so we’re going to be absolutely fine. I don’t want either of you worrying.”
This was our second night in the new rented house. It had taken over a year to sell the old one. It wasn’t that there had been no interest. There had been plenty. I must have had a dozen offers, but these days the mortgage companies weren’t lending the huge amounts that London buyers required, so people pulled out. The couple who finally bought it were in the music business. She had a sleeve of tattoos. He had a Hitler Youth haircut and said the house had a real Velvet Underground vibe. They paid cash.
I’d driven past a couple of times since they moved in and seen their Mercedes Sport in the drive. Meanwhile, the kids and I had moved into a two-bedroom Victorian terrace on the wrong side of the tracks. Literally. The Reading-to-Waterloo line was a couple of hundred yards beyond the back garden. At the end of the street was the level crossing, the border post between our new scruffy neighborhood and our old
“And I’m too old for the ‘three pigs’ story. It’s for babies.”
“I like it,” Ella shot back. “And I’m not a baby.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I . . . am . . . not. You’re a baby.”
“No. You are.”
“OK—enough,” I said. “Nobody’s a baby. Now can I please carry on with the story?”
At this point, Dan threw back his duvet and began jumping on the bed.
“Dan, stop that! You’re going to damage the springs. Come on . . . settle down, both of you. It’s way past bedtime.”
Dan carried on jumping. “So, Mum . . . is Dad a skeleton yet?”
“What?”
Judy, the grief therapist, had warned me that one of the ways children cope with death and try to make sense of it is to gather information. As the months passed, I should be prepared for more rather than fewer questions on the subject. “And don’t be surprised if they become a bit obsessed—particularly with the more macabre aspects. Ghosts, the devil and hell might well become hot topics.”
We’d had the occasional discussion about ghosts and whether Mike might come back as one. Dan pretended to be intrigued by the idea, but I could tell that it scared him. My response was unequivocal. There were no such things as ghosts.
Dan wondered if there was TV in heaven. If there was, did Dad get to watch football? And did they get earth news or heaven news? He decided they probably got both.
Neither of the kids had mentioned cadavers. Until now. “So, is Dad a skeleton?” Dan repeated the words slowly—in case I hadn’t heard the first time.
“I don’t know. . . . Dan, will you
please
stop jumping.”
“Mum, tell Dan to shut up. My daddy’s not a skeleton.”
“Maybe not yet,” Dan came back, landing hard on his rear. “But he will be once his body has rotted. That takes ages. He’s most likely still got worms and maggots crawling inside him, eating his flesh.”
Ella burst into tears and started howling. I got up from Dan’s bed, moved across to hers and pulled her onto my lap.
“Dan, that’s enough. If you want to talk about this, come to me. But I will not have you upsetting your sister, and especially not at bedtime.”
“I want my own room,” Ella sobbed. “I hate Dan. I hate him. I had my own room in the old house.”
“I know, hon, but for the time being you two are going to have to get used to sharing.”
“But why do we have to share? Why did we have to leave the old house?”
“You know why. Now that Daddy isn’t here anymore, there isn’t as much money coming in as there used to be.” The children still knew nothing about Mike’s gambling or all the debt he’d left, and while they were young, I intended for it to stay that way.
“So we’re poor and we’re going to starve like Bob Cratchit and all the people in Africa. . . .”
“What? No. Dad’s been gone for months—have we starved so far? I’ve got my job, so we’re going to be absolutely fine. I don’t want either of you worrying.”
This was our second night in the new rented house. It had taken over a year to sell the old one. It wasn’t that there had been no interest. There had been plenty. I must have had a dozen offers, but these days the mortgage companies weren’t lending the huge amounts that London buyers required, so people pulled out. The couple who finally bought it were in the music business. She had a sleeve of tattoos. He had a Hitler Youth haircut and said the house had a real Velvet Underground vibe. They paid cash.
I’d driven past a couple of times since they moved in and seen their Mercedes Sport in the drive. Meanwhile, the kids and I had moved into a two-bedroom Victorian terrace on the wrong side of the tracks. Literally. The Reading-to-Waterloo line was a couple of hundred yards beyond the back garden. At the end of the street was the level crossing, the border post between our new scruffy neighborhood and our old
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