The Kicking the Bucket List. Cathy Hopkins

was so hilarious. ‘Hello. Iris Parker here, I’m avoiding someone I don’t like. Leave me a message and if I don’t call back, you’ll know it’s you.’ I found and read everything I could about life after death in the hope that somewhere she continued and that, although her body had gone, her consciousness and spirit lived on. But mostly I was aware that the phone no longer rang. She’d gone somewhere I couldn’t follow and she wasn’t coming back.

       5

      Friday 4 September

      I was in the front garden, enjoying the sun on my bare arms and face when Anna appeared at the gate. She was wearing a peacock blue vintage halter-neck dress, a chunky green glass necklace and her hair was glossy from blow-drying.

      ‘Why are you all dressed up?’ I asked.

      ‘Lunch with Ian.’

      ‘Shows off your figure.’

      Anna did a twirl. ‘Ta. So. Have you spoken to either of the Harris brothers?’

      ‘I have. I decided not to put it off and emailed Michael Harris first thing this morning to say that I won’t be able to buy the house for at least a year. I told him that Mum had died and that I’m going to have to wait for my inheritance to come through. He must have passed it on to his brother William because he got straight back. As I expected, they aren’t prepared to wait that long and are sending the estate agents in the next few days.’

      ‘Wow, they don’t waste any time. You’d have thought they’d have understood, seeing as they’re in the same position, having just lost their own mother.’

      I shrugged. ‘Yes, but they don’t know me or owe me anything. I’m just a tenant in their late mother’s house. Why should they wait any longer?’

      ‘Out of the kindness of their hearts and because you’ve been here so long. What difference would a year make? Did you tell them about the kicking the bucket list?’

      ‘No way. It wouldn’t have helped.’

      ‘Want me to help you clear up for the estate agents?’

      I sighed. ‘I suppose.’

      ‘It’s not over yet Dee. Houses don’t always sell straight off. First of all, it can take weeks for the agents to do the photos and copy for the brochure, then it has to be approved and so on. And we’re going into the autumn. It’s September. Everyone knows the housing market is best in the spring. See if you can talk them into waiting until next year. Appeal to their business sense. Who wants to buy in the winter down here? You’ve got a good argument, especially being where we are. Everything looks better in the spring – your garden, the area. If they’re prepared to wait a while, it might buy you some more time.’

      ‘Worth a try I guess, though – as we both know – September and October are fabulous months down here, especially if there’s an Indian summer.’

      A mischievous expression crossed Anna’s face. ‘I’ve had another idea. Don’t clear up for the estate agents, nor any viewing you get when it goes on the market. If you can put people off for a year, you’ll be in a position to buy again.’

      ‘But how? This house is lovely and the area is so picturesque. What could possibly put people off?’

      ‘Ghosts. Tell them it’s haunted. By your mother or, even better, by theirs!’

      I laughed. ‘Good idea.’

      ‘Or casually mention a problem with the sewage and flooding. We’re near enough to the sea to make people worried.’

      ‘And we could get the lads from the pub to come over and smoke in the living room. Nothing smells worse than the smell of stale cigarette smoke—’

      ‘Yeah. Make it smell like an old pub. But best of all,’ Anna pointed to herself, ‘tell people about the noisy neighbours. I’ll turn up the CD player with some obnoxious music and you can sigh in a long-suffering kind of way and say, yes, I’ve tried everything but that woman over the road won’t turn it down. She’s very difficult, I think she has mental problems. She has four kids too, they’re just as bad, the eldest has a drum kit and the youngest is teething, poor thing, cries all night.’

      ‘Ever thought of writing, Anna? You’ve got a good imagination and you’re right, the options are endless.’

      ‘Ian and I could pretend we’re drunk and make a racket when you’ve someone booked in for a viewing.’

      I sighed again. ‘It’s a good plan, Anna, but you know I’ll never do it. It would feel dishonest.’

      ‘Oh, forget that. It’s your home. You have to fight for it. You’re too nice, that’s always been your problem. Don’t let people walk all over you. Don’t be such a wimp.’

      ‘OK. Maybe.’

      ‘Maybe? I know you won’t.’ Anna regarded me for a while. ‘It’ll be all right, Dee.’

      ‘Will it?’

      ‘Course. As I said, it’s not over yet.’

      Thursday 10 September

      I popped into the local shop for milk and cat food. My days are filled with glamorous events such as this. Sometimes I go a bit mad and buy a tub of organic rhubarb yoghurt, the kind with probiotics. No stopping me when I’m in a wild mood.

      While waiting to be served, I listened to customers discussing the good weather we were having, then I spied the display of scratch cards next to the till. Waste of money, I normally think. I’m not a gambler, but there was one for five pounds that had a prize of five hundred thousand pounds. It seemed to be calling to me in the same way that Häagen-Dazs Salted Caramel ice cream sometimes does. Buy me, buy me. I could hear it, clear as day. Someone has to win, I thought as I found a fiver in my purse and asked for the card.

      ‘Fancy your chances then, do you?’ muttered Mrs Rowley, as she handed me the card.

      ‘I do,’ I replied. ‘You’ve got to think positively don’t you agree?’

      Mrs Rowley grimaced. ‘Not necessarily. I want to punch people who are too cheerful, especially first thing in the morning.’ She was a miserable old sod, but popular in the village because she made the rest of us look like a happy bunch. ‘Let me know if you win and you can buy a round in the Bell and Anchor.’

      ‘I will,’ I said and turned to go. I glanced at the queue behind me, all of whom had been listening. There were no secrets in this village, and normally I didn’t mind my neighbours knowing what I’d bought or not, but who was first in line after me? Michael blooming Harris, who had an amused look on his face. Damn. He’ll think I’m desperate and he wouldn’t be far wrong, I thought as I shoved the scratch card into my bag. ‘Not for me,’ I said. ‘For my friend.’

      ‘Friend? That’s good of you.’

      ‘That’s me. Lady Bountiful. Anyway, back again so soon?’

      He nodded. ‘I’m meeting with the estate agents later today. I always like to meet them face to face, know exactly who I’m dealing with.’ He had a very direct gaze, which I found disconcerting, and … was I imagining it or was there a charge of electricity between us? No, couldn’t be. Must be the prunes I had with my porridge this morning. I hated him. He was going to take my home and, besides, men like him went for thirty-year-old blondes with breasts that point north, perfect nails, and who have done fancy cooking courses in the south of France. They don’t look at middle-aged women like me with a body on the slow journey south.

      Michael Harris only stood out because there was a shortage of decent men in the village. The only single men around my age were Ned and Jack who pretty well lived in the pub, Arthur who smelt of stale biscuits, Joss and Paul, who spent most of their time smoking weed and, anyway, were