Edna's Death Cafe Read online

  Edna’s Death Cafe

  Angelena Boden

  Copyright © 2018 Angelena Boden

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Matador®

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  ISBN 9781789011579

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  “A jewel of a story, reflecting the transformative work of death cafes in an accessible way.”

  Sue Friston

  Malven Death Cafe

  EDNA’S DEATH CAFE is a novel inspired by the International Death Cafe movement, a social enterprise based on the ideas of Bernard Crettaz and developed by the late Jon Underwood in 2011.

  It was written to highlight the role of community in raising awareness of the need to talk about death and dying but is not based on any observed Death Café meeting or facilitator. Any similarities are purely coincidental.

  The novel was written to support the excellent work of the Death Cafe movement and is not designed to bring it into any disrepute.

  The following statement is taken from www.deathcafe.com

  “At a Death Cafe people, often strangers, gather to eat cake, drink tea and discuss death.

  ‘Our objective is

  “to increase awareness of death with a view to helping people make the most of their (finite) lives.”

  A Death Cafe is a group directed discussion of death with no agenda, objectives or themes. It is a discussion group rather than a grief support or counselling session.’

  I am indebted to all those facilitators who allowed me to attend their meetings, some of which were serious, others infused with wit but all compassionate, supportive and sincere in their approach to opening up those painful discussions we would rather not have.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Hope Valley, Derbyshire

  ‘It was the ice cream that killed him.’

  Olive tapped Nigel’s arm with her gloves, telling him not to be so daft. Mourners were gathering in sombre clusters after Ted Eyre’s funeral, unsure of what to do next. Edna had been clear that they were to go back to the Happy Oatcake for the wake, while she would go to the crematorium alone. Conversations were laconic, stilted, punctuated by the odd burst of forced laughter.

  ‘I’m sure Edna said he didn’t like ice cream.’

  ‘She doesn’t like it, but he’d asked for two flakes, because Edna likes chocolate. He was good to her like that.’

  A cheeky October sun lit up a dip in the hills, reminding them that life was forever present.

  ‘I reckon he ate it too quickly.’ Nigel was determined to press home his point.

  ‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’

  The chatter fell away. Ruth tutted at the streak of mud on her black court shoes, wiping it off with a tissue. It was only the second time she’d worn them. She referred to them as her sad shoes, bought for their Deborah’s Requiem Mass.

  ‘You alright, love?’ asked Lionel, taking her hand.

  ‘Fine. Why shouldn’t I be?’

  Olive frowned at the snappiness in Ruth’s tone. Poor Lionel. Always the butt of his wife’s unhappiness.

  Gordon slackened the knot of his tie to scratch his neck. Tugging it off, he folded it into a parcel and handed it to Nigel.

  ‘Give that back to Bert, will you? I’ve got t’sheep to see to,’ he muttered, eyeing up the church clock.

  ‘Edna will be expecting you at the do. You can’t let her down. I’m sure the sheep can wait.’

  Olive left Gordon grumbling about women knowing nowt about sheep. She inched her way towards the church porch to hurry Edna away to the waiting car.

  ‘Lovely funeral, vicar,’ she said.

  Edna adjusted the lilac veil on her hat which bobbed awkwardly on her freshly permed hair. Olive thought the lilac rinse was a bit over the top, even though it was Ted’s favourite colour.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want any of us to come with you? I mean, the crematorium’s not a very happy place.’

  ‘I’m not in a happy place either.’

  Olive accompanied Edna through the lychgate to help her into the car.

  ‘Give Alisa a hand with the tea. Silly girl wanted to do it all by herself. For me.’

  Olive watched the black car glide down the narrow street to the main road, before reminding everyone to head back to the cafe.

  ‘I’m telling you. He collapsed with a double cone in his hand. Made a right old mess of his trousers.’

  ‘You lot should stop listening to rumours.’

  ‘Died in the ambulance. Edna said she didn’t get chance to say goodbye. She’s barely said a word since then.’

  ‘Pity he didn’t have a lolly instead.’ Nigel stuck a cigarette between his lips and flicked his lighter.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Nigel, show some respect, and can’t that wait? Disgusting habit.’ Ruth waved away the smoke and stamped down the path, leaving Lionel to follow.

  The elderly Pryce twins, in their mauve coats from the thirties, stepped to one side, whispering to each other. ‘Ted says he’s settling in fine on the other side, and Edna mustn’t be sad for long.’ Lettie Pryce was nodding as if listening to someone.

  ‘I bet he’s left her a bob or two.’ Gordon rummaged around in his pocket for half a scone he’d not had time to
finish before the service.

  ‘Look at your grubby hands,’ said Mavis Street, handing him a wet wipe.

  ‘Ted’s got a daughter, don’t forget.’

  Several pairs of eyes fixed on the back of Lionel’s head. A line of ancient yew trees threw long shadows over their path back to the village.

  ‘Susanna? That little madam.’

  ‘Not so little now.’

  Mavis Street embedded herself in the huddle, to suck in the gossip.

  ‘She vanished thirty years ago, after her mother died. It was terrible what she did. Poor Ted was left on his own to deal with the shame. He never forgave her.’

  ‘What did she do? I only remember her as having a terrible temper.’ Mavis jiggled her hearing aid.

  ‘Stealing money for drugs. She was a wild child.’

  ‘That’s why she scarpered.’

  ‘Good riddance.’ Nigel stubbed out his cigarette and rubbed his stomach. ‘I’m famished.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Late January

  Edna was sure her mind had gone walkabout. It would be simple if she could forage through her knicker drawer to find it, but life no longer co-operated so willingly.

  The days tumbled on top of each other, with no meaning other than to keep the loyal customers of the Happy Oatcake, satisfied. The café had been closed since the funeral, meaning Alisa had been able to go home for a long holiday. Edna missed her youthful energy and silly jokes so, giving in to pressure from the locals, decided to reopen for a few days a week. She’d promised her mother to keep the business going as long as she could, but promises to the dying were often driven by duty to stop them fretting.

  She looped her bedroom curtains into their tiebacks, wiping the moisture from the window with her right palm. A blancmange was wobbling about in her stomach. Ted had been gone thirteen weeks, two days and – she looked over at the church clock, adding up on her fingers the number of hours. She hoped that, one day, she’d stop counting.

  The street below was damp and deserted. The rain trickled along the gutter, over mounds of rubble, towards the overflowing drain. A chain of puddles reflected the light from the two Victorian lamps guarding the patch of grass the locals called the Triangle. It hosted the memorial to the war heroes, including her father.

  Chilled to the marrow, Edna shuffled into the bathroom in her dressing gown, for a quick wash and a tidy up. No matter how badly she felt, Ted wouldn’t want her to neglect herself. Two dark hairs had sprouted on her chin, so, pulling the skin tight, she plucked them out. A smudge of lilac eyeshadow sank into the creases of her eyelids, which were sore from all the non-crying. She’d have to see Sandra about a fresh perm when she was ready to cope with her non-stop nattering about her new chap.

  It was the fawn polyester slacks that broke her resolve that morning. Dismayed to see her legs looking like undercooked sausages, she allowed herself a silent weep. Not one to feel sorry for herself for long, Edna slipped her arms into a clean overall, puffing as the two sides failed to meet across her chest. Grief had left a hole in her belly that only fig rolls could plug. In her mind’s eye, she saw Ted’s finger wagging at her.

  Edna smiled to herself as she fixed a catering net over her hair, sliding in hair grips to keep it secure. Down in the kitchen, the wind had found its way through a crack in the wall. Waiting for her tea to brew, she tuned an old transistor to Peak radio. A bowl of oatcake batter was resting in the industrial fridge, which was making a strange zizzing noise. Something else that would have to be fixed.

  Adding more liquid to the biscuit coloured mixture, she paused, whisk in hand, to listen to a breaking news flash.

  Another accident on the Sheffield road had caused a pile up. She prayed no one had been killed. A wave of grief ambushed her, as it often did when she was least expecting it. Resting her hands on the worktop for support, she took slow breaths, in and out, until it subsided.

  The radio host cut back in with a foot-tapping song from the sixties. Herman and his Hermits soon distracted Edna from her brooding.

  Oil sizzled in the blackened frying pan on the stove, ready for the first batch of oatcakes, a cross between a pancake and a crumpet. They were special to Derbyshire, though not according her rivals in neighbouring Staffordshire. ‘Them’s like satellite dishes,’ was the usual complaint. ‘They’re supposed to be saucer-sized.’

  Edna pondered on rivalries between people wanting to show their way was the right way. Did it really matter? Course it did, Ted would say. It’s a question of pride. It’s about who we are.

  She poured in the right amount of mixture and let it spread across the bottom of the pan, watching it assume the shape of Greenland, before flipping it over to brown the other side. The two broken tiles above the cooker were her daily reminders that the café needed an upgrade, but she had no energy for that.

  The breakfast rush left her breathless with no time to think about the big questions of life. Getting and keeping local help was impossible when Sheffield and Manchester offered so much more to the local youth. When Alisa, the young Estonian with the waist-length ponytail, had wandered in the previous summer, asking for work, Edna wanted to hug her.

  The breakfast customers stood under the awning, rain dripping onto their shoulders. One of them knocked on the window and pointed to his watch. She flipped the sign from closed to open and eased back the security bolts, standing out of the way as the local quarry workers dived in to pick up their prepared orders.

  ‘Mornin’, m’duck. ’Bout time you were open again for some decent grub.’ They ripped open their foil packages, demolishing the contents in two bites.

  ‘Anyone’d think you’d not been fed for a week,’ she called out after them, a tease buried in the brittleness of her voice.

  An out-of-town walking group were the first booking of the day. In preparation for them, Edna squirted the tables with lemon disinfectant and filled up the serviette dispensers. Some boxes needed to be moved away from the fire exit but she’d leave the heavier work to Alisa. Lionel Baker stood awkwardly in the entrance.

  ‘You’re making me nervous with all that foot tapping. You’d better come inside.’ Edna flicked her cloth over her shoulder and pointed to a chair.

  ‘Coffee?’

  Nursing his trilby hat in both hands, he hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. Edna noticed scabs on his balding head.

  ‘You’re up early. Been out walking the dog?’

  Lionel’s lips twitched as if reluctant to release his words. Edna’s pencilled-on eyebrows drew together.

  ‘Is it Ruth? What’s happened?’

  He cleared his throat and looked over his shoulder.

  ‘It’s her nerves. Ever since our Deborah’ – he picked up the salt cellar from the cruet set and twiddled it between his fingers – ‘was knocked off her bike and left to die by that monster… I shouldn’t be burdening you with it.’

  ‘Go on.’ Edna took it back from him and wiped off the dab of brown sauce.

  ‘She’s not been herself. Ruth, I mean. Not Deborah. Well Deborah isn’t herself, is she? Not anymore. Ruth thinks she’s an angel.’

  Edna warmed his hands with her own and forced him to look at her.

  ‘Tell me what’s happened to Ruth. Slowly.’

  ‘I found her wandering around down by the bus station in the middle of the night. Said she was looking for Debs because she’d not got off the last Sheffield bus. It gets in a few minutes before eleven.’

  ‘You need to call her doctor. Tell him about this and other incidents.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The night she ran down the street in her nightie with a candle, singing “Oh Praise Ye the Lord”? Remember?’

  Lionel’s earlobes were ablaze.

  ‘She won’t see anybody but Father Patrick. Says there’s noth
ing wrong with her. Ruth doesn’t open up easily, not even to me. She’s in a world of her own, most of the time.’

  Edna tuned into his pain. ‘It must be hard for you. She sounds depressed. It’s not unusual after any death, but especially after such a tragedy.’

  ‘Couldn’t you talk to her? I mean, you’ve got a lot of experience of these things. I’d better go back in case she wakes up and finds me not there.’

  She followed him to the door and waved to Mavis Street, who was being dragged down the road by Zeus, her overexcited dachshund.

  ‘I don’t think I’m the best person to talk to her. She thinks I’m a lost soul because I don’t share her religious views. I’m thinking of organising a get-together for the village so we can share our experiences of loss. It’s called a death café. Tea, cake and a chat about dying.’

  Lionel face resembled a blanched walnut. ‘I don’t know if she’ll come to that. I’ll mention it.’

  ‘I’ll let you know more about it when I know myself.’

  As the day rumbled on, Edna allowed her idea to brew. With the visitors outnumbering the locals and the workers locked in their cubicles for so many hours, any community togetherness was limited to nights in the pub, or the occasional festival. She remembered a time when, following a bereavement, the women would be in and out of each other’s houses, bringing food or calling in to simply sit with the person when in the depths of paralysing grief.

  The murkiness of the winter mornings dampened down the mood of her customers who shook themselves out of damp jackets and scowled at the menu. It was the time of year when the world waited in hope, for the springing up of snowdrops and crocuses from their graves, trumpeting a new cycle of life. Apart from Ruth, Edna didn’t know anyone who anticipated a similar resurrection from the dead.

  Murmurs of carefully crafted condolence accompanied the Lavender Ladies Lunch Club. Edna thanked them, saying that she was bearing up and that people had been very kind.