Page 24

Sophie

My heart sinks as our worst customer breezes in four days late, carrying a Gucci handbag, her phone and a folded local newspaper.

Cynthia is the last person I want to deal with today.

I’ve only grabbed a few hours’ sleep, and my head is throbbing.

It was tempting to call in sick, but Bernard wouldn’t cope on his own.

He’s resting his hip in the back, while I organise the racks of freshly laundered clothes, armed with Red Bull and paracetamol.

‘Hello, Cynthia.’

She holds up a finger to shush me as she takes a call, placing her paper and the pink receipt on the counter. I’m glad I didn’t attempt to plaster on a smile. I’m about to fetch her newly altered ballgown, which she’d demanded to collect ‘first thing’ on Monday morning, when I spot the headline:

Three Teenagers Die in Horror Crash

The air escapes from my lungs as I recognise the photos. These are the young people from the pub last week. They shared the number 9. I’d forgotten their digits would run out yesterday. Tears prick my eyes as I take Cynthia’s tag and fetch her ball dress.

See? There’s nothing you can do to save Adam. This proves his numbers are grimly inevitable.

I rifle through the racks, looking for the right number, my chest heaving with emotion.

‘Everything all right?’ Bernard asks.

I nod and pull out the correct hanger, returning to the front of the shop. Cynthia’s call has finished and she’s drumming her long red nails on the counter. I remove the plastic and lay out the taffeta gown.

‘I’ll run this through the till for you. It should fit perfectly.’

She holds up the garment, frowning. ‘It doesn’t look right here.’ She stabs a finger at the seam.

‘This was the only place I could let it out. The stitches aren’t noticeable.’

‘I beg to differ!’ Cynthia scoffs. ‘It looks dreadful. My friends warned me I should use a professional dressmaker.’

I breathe in, attempting to keep calm. ‘You’re welcome to find someone else after you’ve settled your original bill. It’s ￡20. Cash or card?’

‘I’m not paying for this when you’re incompetent!’

‘Madam, you—’

She raises her hand to silence me as her phone rings again.

I grip the edge of the counter, anger rippling through my body.

Her number taunts me: 9,100 days. Why does such an appalling woman get to enjoy a long, full life when Adam’s will be cut short?

He’ll be dead in 23 days, leaving behind a devastated little girl.

The injustice of it, the cruelty of the situation, makes my head spin.

‘I’ll take this and find someone else to fix your mistakes,’ she says, ending the call without saying goodbye.

I swipe the dress away before she can pick it up. ‘Not so fast!’

‘Excuse me?’

‘We don’t work for free, you rude, grasping cow!’ The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them.

Cynthia quivers with fury. ‘How dare you talk to me like that?’

Bernard hobbles over, stepping in front of me. ‘I’m terribly sorry for the misunderstanding, Cynthia.’ He takes the dress from my hands and shimmies it into the wrapping. ‘Please accept this with our humble apologies and no fee.’

Spit bubbles at the corner of her mouth. ‘I will never return to this shop. And I’ll be sure to tell all my friends to avoid coming here. You don’t deserve any business!’

The door slams behind her.

‘Oh dear.’ Bernard sinks into a chair, resting his head in his hands.

My anger is swiftly replaced with guilt. ‘I’m sorry! I couldn’t cope with her rudeness. It was too much.’

He sighs deeply. ‘I’ve been thinking the same for a while, and if anything, this past week has helped make up my mind.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘All this.’ He gestures around the shop. ‘My arthritis is getting worse, along with the takings. I want to make the most of the years I have left without the daily pain and worry – and the rude customers.’

‘You have plenty of time,’ I insist.

‘Not necessarily. Enid and I dreamed of enjoying cruises together. I owe it to her to squeeze in a few before I pop my clogs.’

I shake my head. ‘This is your life, Bernard.’

‘It was , but I should have retired years ago.’

Panic shoots through me at the thought of losing my job. ‘Please don’t stop because of me! I’ll apologise to Cynthia. I’ll do anything to make this up to you.’

‘This is about me, not you,’ he replies. ‘It’s time for me to let all this go before it’s too late.’

Bernard suggests I take a stroll after breaking his retirement news.

He claims my outburst has nothing to do with his decision, but I can’t help thinking I lit the fuse – all because I couldn’t cope with his customer’s healthy digit.

Now, I’m screwed. I won’t find another mending job that pays as well and lets me quilt on the side.

There’s no more Airbnb income from Devon, only mounting bills.

I need to pay my rent and haven’t sold any quilts yet.

I’ll have to accept the property developer’s offer on Mum’s house.

A light breeze makes hundreds of thousands of leaves shiver as I pass the row of trees, making a beeline for the suspension bridge.

I sink on to an empty bench and let the tears flow for how badly things have turned out.

But mainly, I cry over Adam’s fate. The wood groans as someone sits down.

A small white dog yaps near my feet. It’s Walter and Chico.

I angle my body away, hoping Walter hasn’t recognised me.

‘Is there anything we can do to help, Sophie?’ He waves a greyish cotton handkerchief under my nose.

‘No, thanks. Am just having a bad day.’ I quickly wipe the side of my face with my jacket cuff.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t take that as his cue to leave. ‘So is Chico. Our neighbour bought garden gnomes and Chico’s terrified of them! I named him after Einstein’s dog because I thought he might be clever but, sadly, that’s not the case.’

Despite everything, I manage to laugh.

‘That’s better. You often look like you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.’

‘Sometimes it feels that way,’ I admit.

‘I’m told I’m a good listener.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘Let me guess, you think an old man with an intellectually challenged dog couldn’t possibly understand?’

I give him a wan smile but don’t reply. It’s a kind offer and he could sympathise over Bernard’s decision.

But no one will comprehend my ability, and the pain it causes.

Mum did a runner within months of learning the date of her death.

After that, I vowed never to tell anyone for fear of driving them away.

The only possible reaction, understandably, is horror.

No one wants to know when their number is up.

‘In that case, will you humour an old man and let me talk about myself? That’s the problem about having long conversations with Chico – he can’t actually reply.’

‘No way! You’ve shattered all my illusions about dogs.’

‘Apologies.’ He looks at me. ‘What, may I ask, are you grateful for today?’

I swallow a sigh. ‘Sorry, but I’m not religious.’

‘Me neither, not in the traditional sense. I’ll go first.’ He takes a breath.

‘I’m enjoying feeling the ache lift from my toes as I rest. I’ll relish that first sip of a cold pint and the satisfaction from completing a crossword puzzle in the pub.

Afterwards, I’ll soak up the view from the bridge with Chico.

Tonight, I’ll eat my favourite macaroni cheese on a tray in front of the TV.

When I’m in bed, I’ll feel my permanently cold feet tingle because Chico has curled up on top of them.

I’ll look at the latest videos my son, Harry, and daughter-in-law, Maddy, have WhatsApped over of the grandkids.

Matilda’s only six months old, but Harry’s teaching her older brothers, James and Luke, to surf.

I’ll look forward to falling asleep because I’ll see my late wife, Hellie.

Often, in my dreams, we’ll be back on our favourite beach in Cornwall, showing our beautiful little boy, Harry, how to stand on a beginners’ board and catch a wave. ’

I stare at him, surprised. Bernard’s never mentioned that his old customer is a widower or a former surfer.

‘I’m sorry about your wife,’ I say quietly.

‘She died eight years, three months and five days ago, but I chat to her every day.’ He leans back, flexing his foot.

‘My point is that I won’t have achieved anything in the grand scheme of things today, Sophie, apart from a series of small wonders and little delights that are meaningless to other people but bring a huge amount of happiness to myself. ’

‘I get it. I should be grateful for what I have – my health, the people I love, et cetera.’

Closing his eyes, he lifts his face towards the sky. ‘Can you feel it, my dear?’

He asked a similar question on the bridge last week. ‘Feel what? The sun?’

‘No, the joy of being alive.’

I inhale sharply at the thought of what’s to come.

‘I’m dying,’ he continues matter-of-factly.

‘H-h-how do you know?’ I stutter, stealing another sideways look at him.

His face is impassive. ‘Advanced prostate cancer.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be! I’ve had a happy life. I don’t have many regrets, apart from not having Hellie at my side for more of it. I just wish...’ He looks wistfully into the distance.

‘What?’

‘That I knew for definite when it was coming. I need to set my affairs in order, make the most of my time left with family and friends. There are things I need to say and do. Plus, I want to make my goodbye as memorable as possible. That needs careful planning.’

‘Why can’t you arrange to see your family now?’ I ask gently.