The Kicking the Bucket List. Cathy Hopkins

disobedient, always seeking Mum or Dad’s approval.

      ‘Plus you need the money,’ said Rose.

      ‘I do, but regardless of that, it was still Mum’s last wish that we get together and do whatever she’s programmed. She’d thought this out, Rose. I think the least we can do is go along with what she wanted. What if she’s still watching us from somewhere? What if there is an afterlife and she can see that you intend to disregard her wish and not hear how much she regretted us not talking.’

      ‘Oh for God’s sake, Dee, there is no such thing as a ghost or an afterlife. You live, you die. Mum’s gone.’

      OK, I thought, I knew that might not work. Time to try another tactic.

      ‘You’re probably right,’ I said. ‘But part of her will live on with her kicking the bucket list. We know from the letter that she put time and thought into it. If we don’t do it, we’ll never know what was really on her mind these last months. I knew she’d been thinking a lot about death. You probably knew that, too – all those books in her room. I want to do it, for her but also for me, because in a way it will help me hang on to her a little longer, like she will still be there, telling me what to do every other month.’

      Rose was quiet.

      Enough said, I told myself, don’t push her.

      ‘I suppose there’s nothing to lose if we at least see what she wanted,’ said Rose finally.

      ‘Exactly,’ I agreed. ‘Step at a time.’

      ‘I might drop out if she’s dreamed up something completely insane. You know what she was like.’

      ‘Your prerogative, but I think we owe it to her to at least give it a chance.’

      ‘Let me think about it,’ said Rose. ‘I’ll get back to you.’

      I sighed. Blooming Rose. She’d not changed. She never agreed to anything easily, it was always: let me think about it. She’d played the ‘I’ll get back to you’ tactic perfectly, like she always had: taking control and leaving me hanging, at her mercy and wondering what she’d do.

       Rose

      Saturday 12 September.

      ‘What did you say to Dee?’ Hugh asked after I’d put down the phone.

      ‘That I’d think about it.’

      ‘Fleur?’

      ‘Fleur’s in.’

      ‘I think you should do it, Rose. It might be just what you need.’

      ‘I probably will … just … I still feel so angry with them both.’

      ‘Over the funeral?’

      ‘They’re both so selfish, always have been and now they expect me to turn the page on the fact that neither of them offered to help and just carry on like it never happened. Someone had to settle the bill, see the last people off, book taxis for the out-of-towners.’

      ‘It was their mother’s funeral. They probably didn’t even think.’

      ‘Exactly. They never think and they’re not the only ones who lost a mother. Fleur didn’t even say goodbye at the wake. I know. I should let go but I can’t. Not at the moment.’

      ‘To be expected when you’re going through what you are. It’s one of the stages. Denial, anger, depression, acceptance, something like that.’

      ‘Well I’m stuck in the anger stage.’

      ‘The funeral was back in July,’ said Hugh. ‘You can’t keep carrying this. You have to let it go.’

      ‘I know and I know it’s not really about them but anger is an emotion I can deal with at present so I’m sticking with it.’

      Hugh smiled. ‘Anyway, it was probably easier that you did it yourself. I’ve often heard you say that neither Fleur or Dee are great organizers.’

      ‘Stop being reasonable and nice. I want to rage about something and they happen to be in range.’

      ‘Fine. Rage away,’ said Hugh.

      I had wanted to speak to both of my sisters at the funeral before they left but it had been full on from six in the morning, then Dee’d picked the worst possible time to try and talk to me. She probably took it the wrong way, prickly as always. She was always oversensitive. And Fleur just disappeared, probably wrapped up in her grief like she was the only one who existed. I meant to make it right at the will reading then but got a call I couldn’t ignore. I had to go and it’s all been crazy since then. Life takes over, appointments, people to see, plans to make.

      ‘So much for sisters,’ I said.

      Hugh came over and gave me a bear hug. ‘You have me, Rose, you always have me.’

      That much was true. I had Hugh. Neither Fleur nor Dee had partners. I was being mean and not thinking straight. I’d call Dee and let her know I’d do the programme. Of course I would, but not today; tomorrow, I’d call her tomorrow.

       8

      Saturday 3 October

      Two envelopes arrived in the morning post.

      Train tickets to Somerset from Mr Richardson, with an address and instruction to pack a case for Friday and Saturday, 9 and 10 October, and to meet our list organizer, Daniel Scott, on Saturday morning at nine a.m.

      I looked up the address and sighed with relief. Greyshott Manor Hotel and Spa just outside Taunton. Dear Mum. She’d arranged a weekend of pampering, I thought. Why did I ever doubt her? What a sweetheart. And sensible. If Fleur, Rose and I could relax in each other’s company, maybe we could begin to mend some bridges.

      The other envelope contained an official looking letter:

      Dear Ms McDonald,

      Regarding the matter of my late mother’s house, as you know, I have given the estate agent the go-ahead to start marketing. If there is any change in your circumstances and you find yourself in a position to proceed, please let me know as soon as possible. I respect that you were a good tenant for my mother for many years, so you have until the end of the month to give me your decision,

      Regards,

      Michael Harris

      At least he was proposing to give me more time. Maybe a miracle would happen. I texted him back: I will be in touch after this weekend. A If I was right about the kind of man he was, the smiley would annoy him. Good, I thought.

      Friday 9 October

      I had an easy train journey, read a book and arrived at the hotel early Friday evening. It looked lovely. An old manor house set in acres of parkland.

      Inside was a wide reception hall with oak floors, wood-panelled walls, tasteful antiques and the scent of lavender beeswax polish in the air. I was shown to the first floor by a well-spoken young woman with a ponytail called Felicity, who was eager to let me know all about the facilities of the hotel. When I saw the beautiful room with heavy drapes and king-size bed with velvet and brocade cushions, and the enormous bunch of country garden flowers, I felt myself tearing up at the idea of Mum having arranged such a treat for us. I hadn’t had a spa weekend in years, and was really looking forward to whatever treatments Mum had planned.

      ‘Have my sisters arrived?’ I asked. ‘Rose Edwards and Fleur Parker?’

      ‘Ms Edwards has arrived. I believe she’s having supper in her room,’ said Felicity. ‘And Ms Parker called this afternoon to say that she would be checking in later and didn’t require dinner.’

      Fine, if that’s how you want to play it, I