An extract from Ruth Jones' fourth novel By Your Side. Bursting with all the heart and humour that has made Ruth’s name as a screenwriter and author, By Your Side is a joyful celebration of friendship, love and community.
I’m late. Which is so unlike me because I’m usually such a good time-keeper. I thrive on routine and schedule, so being late discombobulates me for the rest of the day. Stopping at the lights on Massey Street, I examine my reflection in the rear-view. It’s not that I’m vain. I’m just checking there’s no jam on my cheek or toast in my teeth – remnants from this morning’s breakfast, and not a good look for what lies ahead. My eyebrows could do with a trim. Going slightly feral. Oh and Lordy, that solitary chin bristle has returned. The bane of my face. I’ve tried zapping it, pluck-ing it, even snipping it with nail clippers, but it always, always returns. I’ve contemplated weedkiller. That’s how desperate I am. Attempting now to yank it out between finger and thumb, my facial inspection is disturbed by an unnecessarily long beep from the car behind. ‘All right, all right!’ I shout. One of my pet hates – drivers who think that a micro-second shaved off at traffic lights will make the slightest difference to their journey. In less than three months I’ll be fifty-five, so my list of pet hates is getting longer. I’m told they increase incrementally with age until full metamorphosis into grumpy old womanhood is complete. Well, that may be so for some, but not for me. Because I, Linda Mary Standish, will not be defeated by age. I’m divorced and single with a job that I love, and a grumpy old woman I am not. Nor will I ever be. I intend to live out the rest of my life at full throttle and woe betide anyone who gets in my way. Like the driver behind who’s now overtaking. His window is open and he glares as he goes. So I blow him a kiss and shout, ‘Show us your knickers, you sexy beast!’ His face is a picture.
Fifteen minutes later, I pull – actually, screech – into the car park of Boransay Crematorium with inappropriate haste, but the ser-vice begins in two minutes and needs must. Hatch open, a plain, unadorned coffin inside, the hearse is parked at the main door. And standing straight as the crease in his black flannel trousers, silently awaiting my arrival, the undertaker nods at me as I approach.
‘Linda Standish,’ he says sombrely.
‘Fergus Murray,’ I respond.
We were in school together, me and Fergus. I wouldn’t say we were friends as such – we just inhabited the same educational landscape from reception class through to Higher Maths. And we still refer to each other by our full names. It’s an unwritten rule. Even at the age of fifty-five. I’m not technically late, so I won’t apologize. Especially to Fergus flippin’ Murray. To me he’ll always be a hormone-fuelled teenager drenched in Lynx, with a light scat- tering of acne and a habit of self-consciously flicking his fringe. For that reason I can’t quite take him seriously.
‘Shall we?’ I say with a sweep of my hand, and head inside. As crematoria go, Boransay is rather pleasant. It lacks the harsh, utilitarian feel you get in some of them, and it’s tastefully done out. Soft light streams through a modern stained-glass window, accompanied by the gentle organ music now emanating from the speakers. Two pedestals either side of the catafalque boast huge cascading lily arrangements. They’re fake, of course, the lilies. But they’re good-quality fake. So you’d be hard-pressed to know the difference, especially from a few yards away. I join the only other mourner in there: a small, neat woman at least twenty years my junior standing in the front row. ‘Hello,’ I whisper. ‘I’m from Boransay Council. Unclaimed Heirs Unit.’
We shake hands and she looks confused. ‘Unclaimed hairs?’ ‘No, heirs.’
Hairs do seem to be a recurring theme this morning. ‘So, are you a relative of the deceased? Because we’ve been trying to track down the family.’
‘Gosh, no,’ she says. ‘I’m from the hospital. They always send someone if they can. Just out of—’
‘Ahem.’ It’s the unmistakeable throat-clearing of Fergus Murray.
Listen to an exclusive extract of the audiobook of By Your Side, written and read by Ruth Jones.