The Happiness List. Annie Lyons
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Fran
Fran was unloading the dishwasher when she found out that her husband had died. In fact, she was just cursing him for not rinsing the plates before stacking them so that they’d come out dirty again. Since that day, she often mused about the strangeness of the things she missed but lasagne-encrusted bowls, the carelessly dropped boxers in the corner of the bedroom, and his wallet on the side in the kitchen seemed to be right up there. They say you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone. They don’t know the half of it.
It was Andy’s best friend Sam who called her. They’d been having lunch together when it happened. One minute he was pincering a piece of tuna sashimi with his chopsticks, talking about their Easter holiday plans, and the next he was gone.
A sudden arrhythmic death or, rather ironically Fran always thought, ‘SAD’ for short.
Aged forty-one.
Really?
Really? Fran would scream at everything from the sky to the untidy shoe rack in the hall. This is really happening, is it? This is really fucking happening.
‘Anger is normal and natural,’ the counsellor told her. ‘A completely understandable part of the grief process.’
Of course, that just made her angrier. An anger as unquenchable as a raging thirst. That was her life during the weeks and months following Andy’s death. One towering rage after another. She hated it but most of all she hated herself. She could see the worry, fear and embarrassment in her children’s eyes as she lost it with everything from the broken washing machine to the UKIP candidate on Croydon High Street (although he had it coming). That was why she’d signed up for the counselling.
But it didn’t help. Not really. She didn’t want to be the tragic widow, going through the grieving process, having her feelings validated and coaxed. She didn’t want to be a widow, grieving or otherwise. Like Brexit or Donald Trump, widowhood was something she was not prepared to accept.
Fran spotted her mother parking her small white car in a huge space in front of their house, revving backwards and forwards in a futile attempt to get closer to the kerb as her father winced from the passenger seat. She was a terrible driver with an unwarranted fear of leaving her car outside Fran’s house ever since Bernie from three doors down had his stolen last year.
‘It was a BMW, Mum. The police said they were stealing to order. I doubt Fiat Puntos are on their wish list.’
‘I’ll have you know that my car is extremely nippy,’ Angela retorted.
Fran did a quick scan of the living room to check that it was up to her mother’s legendary standards of cleanliness. Widow or no widow, she would be the first to criticize a stray cobweb or a grubby skirting board.
In many ways Angela had been the perfect support for Fran. Her father was lovely but he would look at her with a sorrow that Fran couldn’t bear. She knew exactly what he was thinking.
My poor little girl – I’m supposed to protect her from all this but I can’t and I feel helpless.
Fran didn’t do helpless; it was an emotion she couldn’t afford.
‘What can I do, Fran?’ he’d pleaded.
Nothing, she wanted to shout. There is absolutely nothing you can do so stop asking. But this was her dad – her dear, kind dad, who just wanted to make everything all right.
‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Bill, stop fussing and go and play with Charlie,’ Fran’s mother had barked.
Bill looked wounded but nodded. ‘Of course,’ he said, shambling off to the living room in search of his granddaughter.
‘Harsh, Mum,’ remarked Fran.
Angela shrugged. ‘Don’t pretend you weren’t thinking the same thing.’
And that was the main reason why Fran had turned to her mother for support after Andy’s death. Angela Cooper took on grief like an unpleasant stain that needed attention. She refused to indulge her daughter’s predicament. She was never unkind – she just didn’t give Fran an opportunity to wallow.
‘You’re too young to be a widow,’ she’d remarked almost accusingly within hours of Andy’s death, as if Fran had made a disastrous life decision instead of being the walk-on part in a terrible tragedy. The flash of anger Fran had felt at this stupidly obvious comment had actually helped to distract her and probably stopped her from collapsing with sadness.
Now, satisfied that the living room was relatively dust-free, Fran went to the front door to greet her parents. ‘Kids! Granny and Grandpa are here,’ she called.
‘Happy Mother’s and Grandmother’s Day!’ cried Charlie, skipping down the stairs.
‘Thank you, dear,’ said Angela. She kissed Fran on the cheek as she stepped into the hall. ‘Oh my, look at that gigantic cobweb on your hall light. Don’t you ever dust?’
Fran gave a wry smile. ‘What would you have to moan about if I dusted?’
‘Probably the length of your hair,’ retorted Angela. ‘When did you last get it cut?’
Fran rolled her eyes as she leant over to hug her father. ‘Are you all right, Dad?’
He held his daughter at arm’s length, giving her his customary frown of concern. ‘I’m fine, Fran, but how are you?’
‘Right, let’s open a bottle, shall we? It is Mother’s Day after all,’ interrupted Angela.
Fran smiled. Praise the Lord for bossy mothers.
Angela put an arm around Charlie’s shoulder and followed Fran to the kitchen with Bill shuffling behind. ‘Either I’m getting shorter or you’re getting taller,’ she told her granddaughter.
‘And look what I can do,’ said Charlie, stretching her leg straight up and pulling it to her head with one arm.
‘Good heavens above, where did you learn to do that?’
‘Gymnastics,’ smiled Charlie proudly.
‘Amazing,’ said Bill.
‘Such talent! You don’t get that from your mum.’ Angela shot a glance in Fran’s direction before grinning gleefully at her granddaughter. ‘She gave herself a black eye whilst attempting a headstand when she was doing her BAGA Three Award – kicked her own knee into her eye!’
‘Mum!’ guffawed Charlie. ‘You never told me that!’
‘And I never would have either if it weren’t for your motor-mouth granny,’ said Fran, handing her parents their wine. ‘Happy Mother’s Day, Mum. Cheers, Dad.’
‘Cheers, darling,’ replied Angela. ‘Now where is that delightful grandson of mine?’
‘Probably upstairs plugged into his laptop. He’ll come down once he smells the roast.’
‘Why don’t you challenge Grandpa to a game of something,’ suggested Angela to Charlie.
Fran’s heart sank. She could tell that her mother wanted to ‘chat’, which usually involved her talking and Fran listening to a list of everything she was doing wrong.
‘Okay, Grandpa, how about Connect Four? Although, you should know that I’ve been practising with Jude and I’m getting pre-tty good,’ said Charlie.
‘You’re on!’ cried Bill, following her in the direction of the living room.
‘Come on then. Out with it,’ said Fran, once they were out of earshot.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Angela with feigned innocence. Fran raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh, very well,’ said her mother. She stood up straighter and fixed Fran with a look. ‘It’s time you acknowledged your grief.’
Fran