Farewell Trip. Gary Twynam

I’ve got some chocolate. You know the worst thing about all this is I’m going to have to do it all over again. And again. And again. He wants to go to all these different places. Granted, not all of them are abroad, so I wouldn’t have to go into international airspace each time, but still — all sorts of things can happen on trains. What if I got off at Padstow and left him by mistake? He’d end up in a siding at Penzance! How would I get him back then?’

      Sally and Ed stay silent.

      I find three big bars of Fairtrade chocolate in the cupboard and grab another bottle. Look at me. Chocolate and wine. I haven’t even been in the kitchen since December except to find another packet of biscuits. It’s all your fault, Toby Masterson. I’m going to be as fat as a house soon. Fat as a house with crap hair and wearing tracksuit bottoms. I haven’t put on make-up for weeks. Believe me, there isn’t anything glamorous about being a widow.

      I sigh and glug wine into our glasses, musing, ‘I guess at least the box’ll get lighter every time I have to dump a bit of him out. It would be much easier if he was in nine convenient packages.’

      ‘Well —’

      ‘Ed! Don’t even think about suggesting what you’re about to suggest.’ Sally frowns at him. He’s sprawled, gangly legs akimbo, in your seat on the other sofa or she’d have kicked his shin.

      ‘What am I about to suggest?’

      ‘You know very well."

      ‘Anyway,’ I interrupt ‘whoever thought of it, it’s a good idea. I can just take one little container to each place instead of the big box. No worries about hand luggage and no chance of him ending up in Prague.’

      ‘Gdansk.’

      ‘Panama.’

      ‘Delhi.’

      ‘Timbukflippingtu.’

      The more I think about it, the better the idea becomes. There’s only one thing and I don’t think it’s a problem, not really. Ed will soon tell me if he thinks it is. He knew you so well. I look at him.

      ‘Trip wouldn’t mind. Would he? I’m pretty certain he wouldn’t.’

      Ed shakes his head. ‘He wouldn’t mind.’

      Just like that, I’ve decided.

      ‘I think we should do it. In fact, let’s do it now.’

      ‘Good plan! What are you going to put him in?’ and ‘What? Now? Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ say Sal and Ed at the same time.

      ‘Jamjars. Well, jars anyway. Let’s check the recycling box.’

      The recycling box isn’t a great help. In fact it’s an embarrassment. Luckily Sally and Ed are too sensitive to comment. The recycling lorry comes every two weeks and isn’t due for another five days. Even so, there are already eleven wine bottles in there, thirteen now actually, with the two we just finished. But only three jars. It didn’t use to be this way, did it? Surely we used to generate more tins and jars, not just bottles? But then I haven’t been able to cook anything proper, not since December. I just … can’t. It’s more than not being bothered to cook for one.

      Cooking has always been my default setting. Stressed, on edge, fed up; it doesn’t matter, I just cook something. Spend the afternoon making four or five little dishes of garlicky Mediterranean pleasure. Tasty smackerels, as you would call them.

      How could that fail to make a person feel better?

      Except it doesn’t, not now, there’s no comfort in this beautiful kitchen that I dreamed about and planned, and that we saved so long for. I’ve got no one to be pissed off with, to be fed up about, to celebrate with. I’ve got no one to cook for.

      Like I said, I eat a lot of biscuits these days. They go with the greasy hair.

      Ed’s voice pulls me back to the moment.

      ‘Pesto, marinated black olives and Marmite. Nice combo, but not a lot of help with the project in hand — the Marmite jar’s no good, too small. And while we’re at it, who’s ever seen an empty jar of Marmite before? Ridiculous.’ He shoves it back in the recycling box. ‘We need more receptacles.’

      ‘We could empty all the jars in the fridge?’ says Sally doubtfully.

      Ed’s head is already in there. ‘Actually,’ he says ‘It hasn’t got any to empty.’

      Then I remember the jam-making box in the pantry. Soon Ed’s head is in the jam-making box, rummaging around.

      ‘You’ve got all sorts, Ruth. What do you want?’

      ‘Not peanut butter, the plastic lid isn’t dignified. They shouldn’t put plastic lids on organic products, it’s just not right. But brinjal pickle’s a definite yes; never met a man who liked it as much as Trip. That roasted red pepper jar is good, and honey. Honey for my honey.’

      ‘Ah, that’s nice. How about marmalade?’ asks Sally. ‘There, that’s nine. Marinated olives, marmalade, honey — honey for Ruth’s honey — brinjal pickle, pesto, roasted red peppers, blackcurrant conserve and these two. No labels, but they’ve got those nice red and white gingham lids.’

      ‘OK, so now we fill them up. Unless … Should we sterilise them first, do you think, like with jam?’ I study the jars. They look like a group of people standing all crowded together on the kitchen island. Ed shakes his head.

      ‘Nah, it’s not like you’re going to eat any of it.’

      The thought hangs in the air.

      ‘Do you think it’ll look like wood ash from the fireplace — Trip’s ash, I mean?’ Ed muses. I look from him to Sally. It’s clear neither of them know what a person’s ash looks like. ‘I mean, do you think there’ll be bits?’

      ‘Bits?’ The horror on Sally’s face says she hasn’t considered there might be bits. Strangely, this makes me feel better.

      ‘Teeth?’ he clarifies.

      ‘Oh, fuck it.’ I pop the catches. ‘Here goes,’ I say and flip open the lid. Ed peers in.

      ‘Wow. It does look like wood ash.’

      Sally trembles on the other side of the kitchen. ‘There aren’t any teeth, are there?’

      I push a cautious fingertip a little way into the detritus. It’s soft, powdery. This soft, powdery mass is you.

      Was you.

      ‘All right, Ruthie?’ Sally squeezes my shoulder.

      I nod, dash a hand under my nose. Silly, there’s nothing to get upset about. Time for action. ‘Let’s just get on with it, shall we?’ I grab a jar.

      ‘Hmmm, well, yes, bloody easier said than done, actually. How are we going to get six pounds of ash into eight jars?’

      ‘Use a spoon?’ Sally has retreated to the other side of the room.

      ‘That’ll take all night. And, well, it’d go everywhere.’

      Then I remember the funnel I use for filling the jars when I make jam. It must be in the box. Perfect. Though I doubt I’ll be using it to make jam again anytime soon … or ever. Right, compose yourself. This is going to be simple. Just put the funnel in the brinjal pickle jar and pour.

      ‘Here, let me hold it,’ says Ed. I tilt it. My arms are trembling. The box knocks against the jar, and would have tipped if not for Ed’s steadying hands.

      ‘Careful! Careful!’ Sally warns from across the room. ‘Don’t spill it!’

      ‘Shut up, Sal,’ says Ed.

      A little stream of ash trickles down the funnel into the brinjal pickle jar. I’ve got my tongue between my teeth, judging the fill. The box is heavier than I thought it would be. Still, the jar is almost full. Then