Farewell Trip. Gary Twynam

one’s Mrs Muck.’

      ‘I like that jumper of Sally’s. Sally, that’s her name. I’m Ruth, Ruth Britten. And Mrs Muck, well, that’s Laura and I wouldn’t say that to her face if I were you.’

      ‘Hallo, Ruth. No offence. In fact, can’t remember how she got that name, nothing to do with me. Tom’s the one with the love-hate thing going on with her. Or Dick. Or maybe Sebastian. No, definitely Tom. I think it’s something about her looking down her nose at us; turns him on, apparently. That, and the way she walks as though she’s got a broom stuck up her arse. Actually, I quite like that too … so, Totty, I mean, Ruth, nicknames aside, what’s your beef with public-school boys? Not that I am one, of course.’

      ‘What? Apart from the fact they don’t know when to shut up and let the rest of the room watch the TV in peace?’

      ‘Ah, yes, sorry about that. Braying, not attractive is it? Mea culpa. That’s Latin. For my round, I think. What you having?’

      ‘Oh, well … Carpe diem and all that. Snakebite, please. Only … no, don’t bother, Laura’s going to get served ahead of us, she’s getting me one. What’s your name anyway?’

      ‘What, I don’t have a nickname? Oh, now I am disappointed,’ he says, pouting.

      ‘Trip.’

      ‘Sorry?’

      ‘Your nickname, because I saw you once — I mean, we saw you once and … oh, never mind.’ She blushes, aware that he now realises she’s noticed him before.

      ‘Trip. Well, Ruth-Totty, my name’s Toby, Toby Masterson. Toby Trip Masterson. Pleased to meet you.’ He holds out his hand, not noticing the beer splashing over him.

      ‘And that’s another thing about public-school boys. You shake hands.’

      ‘Of course, training for the corporate world. How was it, firm and manly? But with a hint of gentleness, trust and compassion?’

      She can’t help but laugh. ‘And only very slightly damp. Just why do you shake hands? It’s an old man’s thing.’

      ‘Hmm, yes, I suppose it is. I have a theory. It may be mine, it may not. But my theory is that people are actually born at a certain age. You know, within them somewhere their clock is set at a certain year. And their life is either building up to that age, or falling away from it. And you can tell with some of us because it’s obvious we aren’t at our age yet. Me, I’m thirty-five; always have been. Have always felt I’m treading water till I get there and then, finally, I’ll be comfortable. I’ll fit myself. Do you like older men?’

      ‘As long as they don’t have damp palms, or hairy ones for that matter.’

      ‘Or a hairy back. I’d draw the line at that, if I were you.’

      They stand there thinking of what to say next, neither wanting the conversation to end. ‘So, you’re thirty-five? Why that age?’ It’s his shirt that makes her ask. Every other male in the bar wears a T-shirt, but he has on a rumpled blue shirt, now with damp, beery patches. She wonders if it’s an affectation.

      ‘Actually I don’t know. Plucked it out of the air one day to explain how I felt and it stuck. Seemed old at the time, ancient. Not sure it is really, is it? I may be very much older. Not sure I should have mentioned it now…’

      Head to one side, she studies him. ‘I think it’s OK. I can see you at thirty-five, actually. It’ll suit you.’

      ‘Well, if we still know each other when we’re thirty-five you can say I told you so.’

      ‘Ha, as if … Look out, Laura’s coming back. That’s an awful nickname. And she doesn’t really look like she’s got a broom stuck up her arse.’

      ‘Looks like she wouldn’t mind one though … Oops, sorry, drink talking. Besides, she’s not my type.’

      ‘Rubbish, Laura’s everyone’s type.’

      ‘Nah. Too self-possessed. Scary. I think you’re a bit in awe of her. You shouldn’t be. And don’t think you have to copy her either.’

      ‘Who, me? I don’t copy her!’ She looks over at her friend and blushes again. She knows she does. ‘I’m just … anyway, she is pretty and there’s no need to be mean to her.’

      ‘True. No need for meanness, ever. You missed your cue, you know, back there.’

      ‘What cue?’

      ‘The bit when I said she’s not my type.’

      ‘Oh … well … who is your type?’

      He leans in, eyes sparkling. ‘Ah, too late, Totty, too late.’

       CHAPTER TWO

      Putney, February 2010

      ‘Unbelievable!’ Ed shakes his head and pours the last of the wine into his glass. ‘You took that box to Lampeter and hoiked it all the way up Magic Mushroom Mountain and then tipped some out?’ His glasses slip down his nose again making him look even more like the Milky Bar Kid than usual. Well, an elongated, middle-aged version.

      ‘What was I supposed to do? He left a list,’ I say. ‘Dear Ruthie, remember those conversations about dying we had? Well, these are the places I want to be scattered,’ starting with Lampeter. And you know what? He says he wrote ten letters, like a Top Ten Places To Be Scattered. That’s so him, a league table for everything. But there are only nine. He must have changed his mind. It’s all very well to want to be scattered all over the world, but he didn’t think it through properly. It’s bloody heavy, that box, apart from anything else.’

      ‘He did think of quite a lot though,’ says Sally, looking at the carefully printed page headed Siena. ‘Look, you just have to book a flight from Heathrow to Pisa — EasyJet — and he’s told you which online car-hire company to use. Not one I’ve heard of, but I’ll bet it’s the best. You know what he was like. He says you need to remember to book a satnav. And here, see, he’s even put little boxes so you can tick off when you’ve packed all the important things.

      First, find all the essentials, he says, don’t worry about matching your shoes to your outfits, Ruthie, not at this stage. Hmmm, what does he know? You need matching shoes if you’re going to Italy. Anyway … Get out the important things and tick them off the list below. Then he gives you the list. Passport. Print-out of boarding pass. Credit cards. Mobile. Italian translation app. Driving licence …

      ‘Oh, God, I’m going to have to drive the car right out of the airport rental place! How am I supposed to do this all by myself? Get on a plane, find the right car rental desk, drive on the wrong side of the road, navigate all the way to Siena, park the car, find the hotel. Trip did the driving, he hated being a passenger. I can’t do this by myself. I’ve never been on holiday on my own.’

      ‘Is it even legal to take six pounds of dead-person ash into international air space?’

      ‘Ed, you’re not helping.’ Sally shoots him as stern a look as she can manage, which is surprisingly effective considering she’s five foot three with blond curly hair and still has freckles on her nose. People underestimate Sal. ‘Although, thinking about it, you might have a point. He’ll have to go as hand luggage. You know airlines can’t be trusted to get your luggage to the same destination as you these days. There’s no way you can check in the box even if you hide it in a suitcase.

      What if the suitcase went missing? Mum’s luggage didn’t arrive that time they went to the States. It ended up in Gdansk. Gdansk! What if Trip ended up there or Panama or Delhi or Timbukflippingtu? How would you explain to the airline why it’s so desperately important to trace one suitcase? Excuse me, sir, but you appear to have lost my husband. No, he’ll definitely have to go as hand luggage.

      ‘He