Maame(66)

I arrive home ten minutes ahead of time. Mum did offer to come to my place, but she’d probably stay longer than I’d have liked, and I don’t want to deal with introducing her to Jo and Cam.

I don’t go into the living room and head straight upstairs to Mum’s room instead.

“Hello, darling.” She gives me a long hug and rubs my back, which she hasn’t done in years. I find it soothing.

The Register Office calls and I already want to be back at my flat. I don’t understand this aversion to being at the house; maybe I just hate having to be in the same place where my dad died, but Mum and James don’t seem to have that problem. I’m tapping my foot on the floor when I notice the pressure again in my chest. It feels like smoke slowly filling a stoppered bottle.

The woman on the phone gets her fatuous pleasantries out of the way and then the form-filling, on her end, begins. She asks for my dad’s name, gets it wrong when we tell her, then asks us to spell it out. When Mum spells over the phone, she makes things twice as long by using the NATO alphabet. I try to calm the sudden storm brewing in my head by silently coming up with my own. G for “ginger.” E for “elephant.” O for “opioid.” R for “reality.” G for … “Gandalf.” E for “Earth.” Then W for “water” …

“Did he have any middle names?” she asks.

“No,” Mum says.

“Was he known by any other name?”

The simple answer to this is also “No,” it’s also a very stupid question because what does it matter, but of course Mum wants to ruminate on this.

“Well … no, I don’t think. I mean, his friends would call him Fiifi. No, there are no Es. It is pronounced ‘Fee-Fe’ but spelt with Is. Yes, Fiifi, that’s his name day, but only his close friends and myself called him that, so does that count?”

Why tell her all of this? Why risk confusing the slowest secretary in the world?

“Okay, that’s fine,” she says. “Bear with me.”

The longer she’s gone, the hotter my chest burns and my patience is reaching its limit. I’m picturing the sands of time when she finally returns.

“Right, so that’s George Wright,” she says. “Where did he die?”

“At home.”

“What’s the address?”

“Thirty-seven Cornisham Grove.”

“One moment.” Tap. Tap. Tap. “Is that Cornisham Avenue?”

“No, Grove. Grove.”

“Dear God,” I say under my breath.

“Bear with me,” the lady repeats. Two minutes and a massage of my temples later, she’s back to ask, “He died of a large distal bowel obstruction, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t you have the coroner’s report?”

“Mum!” I snap. “Let her finish!”

Mum pauses and stares at me, stunned.

“Just one minute,” the lady says.

“What?” But she’s already gone.

“Okay, sorry about that. What was George’s occupation?”

“He did many jobs,” Mum says. She eyes me, and I lock my jaw. “Security guard,” she adds quickly. “Just put that.”

“At the time of death?”

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“No, he was retired due to medical reasons.”

“Okay, one minute, please.”

“Another one?”

Tick.

“I’m sorry?” she says.

“You need another minute?” I clarify. Tick. “We’ve been on this call for twenty minutes and you’ve hardly taken any information. What the fuck is this?” Tick. “You register the death of loved ones—of all things to be inefficient in, this is not the fucking one!”

Boom!

“Maddie!”

I didn’t realize I was yelling or that I’m now on my feet.

“I’m sorry,” the woman on the phone says. “I understand this is a difficult time for—”

“Oh, my condolences,” I tell her. “Is your dad dead, too?”

“Well, no.”

“So where the fuck is your understanding coming from?” I ask. “You don’t get to say you understand in a poor attempt to shut me up. What’s taking so long on your side to fucking do this? Is it technical difficulties? Do you want to call us back when you have your shit together?”

“Maddie! That’s enough!”

I turn back to Mum and blink. I wipe my eyes but they won’t dry. “I can’t do this,” I tell them both. “Get James to help you finish. It’ll be the first thing either of you’ve done for Dad in months. Posthumous—just your style.”

Mum’s face falls.

I flee the house. As I speed-walk, ignoring the sweat dampening my shirt, I look up the train departure times; mine is due in four minutes and it usually takes me seven to get there. So I start to run. The one after is in half an hour, and I can’t wait around for that long. I need the train to get me away from here now.

I run until my lungs sting and my legs cramp, but I make it, jumping into the nearest carriage only a second before the doors slide shut. I let out a breath of relief that happens to be a suppressed sob.