To My Best Friends. Sam Baker

off again two minutes later, he was grateful. It had been like looking inside himself, and finding nothing there.

      Chapter Ten

      Sunday lunch didn’t happen. David knew it wouldn’t.

      ‘It’s Mona, isn’t it?’ he said when Jo called on Friday night and suggested they take a rain check. ‘She nixed it.’

      ‘No,’ Jo said. ‘It’s Lizzie. Something’s come up with her mother. She needs to go and see the staff at the care home.’

      ‘What about her sister?’ David asked, already knowing the answer.

      ‘What about her?’ Jo’s shrug was almost audible. Lizzie’s sister, Karen, lived in the States and was conspicuous by her absence at the best of times, particularly when there was a mother-related issue.

      ‘Look, David, I promise, it’s nothing sinister. Nobody’s avoiding you. Not even Mona. Lizzie does have to go to Croydon and she doesn’t know how long it will take. But next weekend, Easter Sunday, if you’re free, it’s a date. I’ll shop, Lizzie will cook. You get the booze in. And Mona can bring desserts that come out of a packet.’

      He’d had to be satisfied with that. He understood; after all, they hadn’t even begun to resolve the ‘what to do about Nicci’s bequests’ problem.

      Common sense said the whole thing was ridiculous. Everyone agreed on that. You can’t go leaving people to other people. Clothes, yes. Patches of garden, at a push. Even the shed, but not people.

      Emotionally, though, it wasn’t that straightforward. Emotionally, morally, ethically . . . Put like that, the less he saw of Mona the better. And he tensed every time he thought he heard Lizzie unlocking the side gate. Only the idea of Jo mothering his girls, for now at least, didn’t bother him. After all, somebody had to.

      The sound of Peppa Pig sloshing through the muddy puddles echoed from the sitting room. Harrie and Charlie were happy, sitting side by side on the floor in front of the TV, clutching their blankies. But it wasn’t yet 9 a.m. The whole day stretched ahead.

      If not going to the park or on play dates, Nicci would have baked cakes, done potato prints, or made dresses for their dolls, applying the same focus to making and baking on Saturdays and Sundays as she did to her other baby, Capsule Wardrobe, during the week.

      ‘No one ever regretted time not spent cleaning the house,’ she’d been fond of saying (about pretty much anything she didn’t like doing), which was why they’d got a cleaner. ‘But if I don’t spend time with the girls, I’ll regret that.’

      As it turned out, Nicci was right. Of course, they hadn’t known then just how little time with the girls she had left.

      David once asked where Nicci had learned it all, the sewing and cooking and making, hoping she’d tell him about her childhood, but she just shrugged. ‘I taught myself,’ she’d said. Now he wished she’d taught him too.

      Wandering back to the kitchen, David flicked the radio on, then off again. He’d promised himself he’d dispense with the white noise, but it was instinctive. Another weekend stretched before him. Another weekend of not doing the right voices, of eating shop-bought cookies. He had to do something.

      ‘You know you can always come to us,’ his mother had urged, from the very first weekend, and his father had clapped him on the shoulder in silent agreement.

      He knew. He’d been to his parents five out of the last six weekends. The last time, Charlie had announced, as he lifted her from the car, ‘Not Granny’s again!’ in a voice that carried all the way to his mother standing beaming on the doorstep. She sounded so much like Nicci, he barely held it together.

      There was always the swimming pool. Si might be there, with his boys. Although last time David had tried getting Charlie and Harrie changed and into the baby pool, he’d lost Harrie for a full minute and nearly had heart failure. And he’d been able to see what all the mums were thinking: typical weekend dad, can’t be left alone for five minutes. The ones who recognised him were worse. There were days he feared he might drown in other people’s pity.

      Then it dawned on him: Whitstable. The beach hut had been one of Nicci’s favourite places, especially in the winter. (‘Fewer tourists, more personality,’ she’d said, neatly sidestepping the fact that owning a beach hut in Whitstable didn’t exactly make her a local.) They hadn’t been since the end of last summer. Once the chemo started, and the radio, Nicci wasn’t well enough to go back.

      ‘Let’s go to the beach!’ he announced, tiggering into the living room in his best children’s TV presenter manner.

      Two small blond heads turned to watch him, two pairs of brown eyes gave him a look of withering contempt, usually reserved for idiots who thought they might eat green stuff.

      Harrie cocked her head on one side, Charlie the other. ‘But, Daddy,’ they said, ‘it raining.’

      * * *

      Angry waves lashed the shingle just short of the row of weather-beaten huts. There was no horizon that David could see. The unforgiving grey of the North Sea merged with a steely, rain-laden sky. Only the occasional tuft of green showed where feisty blades fought their way through spits of land, only to wonder what the point was when they got there. The usually cheerful pastel pinks and blues of the beach huts failed to inject any joy into the landscape.

      He tried to see what Nicci would have seen if she’d been here. Spirit! Nature! A challenge! Without her to show it to him, all David could see was a cold beach; nature in the grip of the meanest of mean reds.

      He’d come here looking for comfort. But there was nothing comforting on this bleak stretch of shingle.

      The beach was empty in both directions. Not so much as a dog scavenging for scraps. Even the oyster stalls weren’t open, not that David would be using them if they had been. The memory of trying to force-feed the girls oysters – working on Nicci’s theory that they should get them used to everything early – and the look of disgust on their faces as they spat five quid’s worth of seafood across the table gave David his first smile of the day. ‘Heathens!’ Nicci had declared.

      The only tourists dumb enough to brave the Kent coastline in the coldest March for thirty-one years had taken refuge in Nicci’s favourite café, Tea & Times, nursing steaming mugs and the papers. This was where David and the girls had been, eating cheese on toast and drinking hot chocolate until half an hour ago. And where, it was painfully clear, they should have stayed.

      His was the only beach hut open, and David was rapidly wishing he hadn’t bothered. The interior – which in his mind’s eye was a stylish combination of nautical blue and white – was, in reality, drab and faded, the rattan sofa coated with grit that had crept through the cracks in the clapboard. The Calor Gas heater was empty. And he hadn’t thought to bring a new bottle. The beach hut was as desolate inside as it was out.

      ‘Need a wee-wee,’ Charlie announced.

      David counted backwards from ten. ‘Sweetie,’ he said, when he reached zero, ‘you just had a wee-wee in the café. Come and help me tidy Mummy’s hut.’

      ‘Need one now.’

      ‘Right,’ David said. ‘We’d better go outside then.’

      ‘Co-old,’ Harrie said, plonking herself heavily on the gritty sand at his feet, as David helped Charlie crouch. ‘Harrie need a wee.’

      Any second now the grizzling would start. Who could blame them? The afternoon was cold and wet and, frankly, no fun at all. Given the chance, he would happily sit down next to them on the damp shingle and grizzle along with them.

      ‘Come on, girls,’ he said, trying to sound convincing. ‘Let’s go for a walk. It’ll be fun.’

      They weren’t fooled. ‘Cold, Daddy!’ Their little faces looked pinched and blue.

      David closed his eyes and prayed for help; for a hot-water